


Batman 2020: Smile Like You Mean It

by PunkyBlooze



Series: Batman 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Comics
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Race Changes, Alternate Universe - Sexuality Changes, Batman 2020, Batman2020, Blood and Violence, Bottom Joker (DCU), Bruce and Joker Meet as Kids, Canon Divergence, Digital Art, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Fanart, Formerly Psychosomatic Addict, Frida is Alfred, Halloween, ItGetsPolitical, Jay is the Joker, Joker is younger than Bruce, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Origin Story, Original Fiction, Plot focused, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, PunkyBlooze, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Smile Like You Mean It, Top Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkyBlooze/pseuds/PunkyBlooze
Summary: A year after the murder of his parents, young Bruce Wayne returns to “Crime Alley”, seeking vengeance. But what he finds instead is Jay, a strange boy with whom he forms a close bond as they team up to search the most dangerous parts of Gotham for the murderer.Now a grown man, Bruce Wayne struggles with the haunting memories of what he experienced all those years ago. Meanwhile, an unknown killer frames his alter-ego, Batman, for the murders of the criminal associates of Carmine Falcone. With his relationship with the GCPD in shambles due to unchecked police brutality and the threat of Falcone plotting with Oswald Cobblepot to put an end to the Dark Knight once and for all, Batman is on his own to catch the real killer. And when Jay suddenly reappears, Bruce courts a dangerous relationship with his childhood friend as facts begin to bleed into fiction.=========="Batman 2020" is a project 6+ years in the making. It's a collection of AU stories within the modern world of my own strange, original take on the Dark Knight. All concept art included is created and copywritten by myself. Chapters released as they're finalized. (Formerly Titled: Psychosomatic Addict)
Relationships: /// & Relationships are Non-Romantic/Sexual ///, Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Batjokes - Relationship, Batman & Jim Gordon, Batman & Penguin, Batman x Joker - Relationship, Batman/Joker, Bruce Wayne & Martha Wayne & Thomas Wayne, Bruce Wayne x Joker, Bruce Wayne/Joker, Gotham City & Bruce Wayne, Joker & Falcone, Joker & Scarecrow, Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne, Penguin & Falcone, Penguin & Joker, Penguin & Zsasz
Series: Batman 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982195
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Soundtrack:
> 
> "Toxic" by Britney Spears, epically covered by 2WEI  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yL7IRngzIdk&list=PLmn0lxfD9DrkhahMg6AWe1ETzJMWFd50Y&index=12)
> 
> ==========
> 
> Concept Art of Batman:
> 
> [](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-When-I-Eat-His-Beating-Heart-865324982)
> 
> _All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze.  
>  This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen.  
> For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

PunkyBlooze

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Dumpster-Fire-Colored-Joker-Concept-Art-858235815) **

_All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze._

_This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen._

_For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

**Find My Art (18+ ONLY):**  
DeviantArt: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze)  
Instagram: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.instagram.com/punkyblooze)  
Twitter: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.twitter.com/punkyblooze)  
Facebook: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.facebook.com/punkyblooze)  
Live Streaming on Picarto: [@PunkyBlooze](https://picarto.tv/punkyblooze)

* * *

###  **Prologue**

_His eyes were wide and full of fear; a cornered deer with a broken leg, quaking at the advance of an emaciated wolf. He could feel his heart beat reverberating through his body as the apparition before him continued to advance, almost entirely unhindered by its grotesquely broken leg or the bullet wound in its chest. In one hand, it held a large and bloodied shard of glass that caught its victim’s eye; the weapon it had used to sever the Achilles tendon of his right leg, sending him tumbling down the flight of stairs._

_“Hehe,” it laughed, softly at first but with growing menace and volume, “Hehehe—Haha-HA-HA-HA!!”_

_Something dark and not quite dead pulled at the back of his mind. Memories he’d buried like bodies in graves far deeper than six feet of dirt were clawing their way to the surface. He’d seen this before, hadn’t he? But no, he told himself, no, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. Concussion. He’d had a concussion they said. Just a dream. An impossible figment of his imagination. Impossible._

_In the red glow of the emergency lights, the creature appeared as though drenched in gore as it reached the bottom of the stairs and he shook his head in disbelief, “How… How are you still walking?”_

_It continued towards him, teeth showing in a great, crooked grin, and he bellowed in terror, “What are you?!”_

_“Oh,” it said softly, “But you already know. You know what I am.”_

* * *

**The Comic:**

I'm currently working on turning this story into a comic, so feel free to +Watch/+Follow for updates!

Click on any of the images to follow the link to the full size page.

DeviantArt: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze)  
Instagram: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.instagram.com/punkyblooze)  
Twitter: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.twitter.com/punkyblooze)  
Facebook: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.facebook.com/punkyblooze)  
Live Streaming on Picarto: [@PunkyBlooze](https://picarto.tv/punkyblooze)

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Cover-866931576)**

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Prologue-866932007) **

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-1-866316125) **

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-2-866846866) **

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-3-867045583) **

[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-4-867538564)


	2. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Dark Knight has a tense exchange with Commissioner Gordon at the scene of a murder and when the cowl is shed, Bruce Wayne struggles with the haunting images of violence that keep him from sleeping._
> 
> ==========
> 
> Excerpt:
> 
> "Heading to the bathroom, Bruce stripped and let the water run in the standing shower, waiting for the temperature to heat up before stepping in. The air was soon thick with hot steam, but his aching body remained rigid. A great many pale, jagged scars marred his otherwise dark skin, souvenirs from his secret identity. He tried not to look at them and when he emerged from the bathroom, he dressed conservatively enough to hide them, even in the privacy of his own apartment. Then he collapsed upon his unkempt bed, exhausted and already feeling a cold, clammy sweat building upon his skin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Soundtrack:  
>   
> Scene 3: Going Home  
> "Righteous" by Juice WRLD  
> [Click Me For Lyric Video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TY86hAShRK4)
> 
> ==========
> 
> Concept Art of Bruce Wayne:  
> 
> 
> Concept Art of Batman:  
> [](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-Batman-s-Armor-864967191)   
> [Click Me For Full Image](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-Batman-s-Armor-864967191)

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

PunkyBlooze

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Dumpster-Fire-Colored-Joker-Concept-Art-858235815) **

_All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze._

_This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen._

_For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

**Find My Art (18+ ONLY):**  
DeviantArt: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze)  
Instagram: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.instagram.com/punkyblooze)  
Twitter: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.twitter.com/punkyblooze)  
Facebook: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.facebook.com/punkyblooze)  
Live Streaming on Picarto: [@PunkyBlooze](https://picarto.tv/punkyblooze)

* * *

###  **Chapter 1: Therapy**

**1**

Broken shards of moonlight were all that illuminated the room as Commissioner Gordon stood by an open window, waiting. His eyes were fixed on the body, as they had been for the passed ten minutes. It was sitting in the chair it had been murdered in, ruddy stains spread all around its head where the blood from the wound in its throat had seeped into the fabric. The murder weapon lay on the table beside it, in a dried pool of the same blood: a small bat-shaped throwing knife.

The man was Freddie Tiegs, a known accomplice to one of Gotham’s biggest crime lords: Carmine Falcone. He was no small-time soldier either, Tiegs was one of Falcone’s shrinking number of lieutenants. “Shrinking”, allegedly, because the vigilante known as Batman was killing them off.

There was a knock at the door behind him and, upon his response, an officer looked in on the room, “Sir, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Of course, I am,” Gordon assured him, meeting his eyes.

The officer didn’t look convinced, his gaze trailing to the body, “Commissioner, this is the fourth one and we’ve got _no_ leads on who else might—”

He stopped suddenly, his hand flying instinctively to his gun at the subtle signs of movement.

“Wait!” Gordon held out his hand to stop him, turning sharply back towards the body.

There in the shadows, the source of the officer’s fear had materialized. The Batman had come. The officer scowled at him once his fear had abated and he seemed quite hesitant to move his hand from his firearm. However, a firm gesture from Gordon sent him reluctantly from the room, leaving the Commissioner and the Bat alone with the body. There was a long moment of silence.

“Tiegs,” Batman said, stepping closer.

Gordon watched as the eyes of his mask lit up, scanning the crime scene, and he could only wonder what they were showing the man on the inside. When he came to the bat shaped knife, he paused. If his expression changed at all, Gordon couldn’t tell. The mask covered his entire face, allowing him to speak through a modulator that altered his voice into a deep, ethereal growl.

“What do you think? Is it one of yours?”

The Bat didn’t answer right away, allowing the analysis to run its course first.

“No fingerprints… Just like last time,” he glanced at the Commissioner, “May I?”

Gordon nodded and he picked up the throwing knife, comparing it to another he pulled from his belt. Once the lights in the eyes of his mask went dark again, he placed the blade back on the table, “It’s cast from a cheaper, less durable material and the craftsmanship is flawed, but it looks like whoever made it may have one of mine. It’s the same mold.”

“Let’s hope they didn’t make more,” Gordon sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair, “This doesn’t look good for you.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

The two peered at each other, tension building like a wall between them. “Some of my officers aren’t so sure,” Gordon finally admitted, “We’ve been working for a whole year to bring Falcone down and now that we’ve nearly cornered him, it’s suspicious that all the lieutenants that are left to hold his operation together are suddenly dropping like flies. Pardon the expression but it’s… too good to be true.”

“Your own office is full of predators, Gordon,” Batman growled, “Sadistic, violent men who kill without question. No different than the man in that chair. I’m not one of them. And I never will be.”

Gordon opened his mouth to argue, looking exasperated, but stopped himself. He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his thick rimmed glasses. “We can’t keep doing this. We have to stick together if we want to have any hope of taking down Falcone. We’re so close. I gave you my word that I would clean up the GCPD when I became Commissioner, but it takes time. You have to trust me.”

“Then trust _me,_ ” Batman responded, “Someone is setting me up. And I’m going to find out who.”

**2**

“Up late again, Bruce?”

Bruce Wayne sat in a leather chair before a complex computer system, staring at a dizzying array of displays and controls. It was by far the most lived-in segment of Batman’s sprawling base of operations, set up in the caves beneath Wayne Manor. He’d switched out his armor and cowl for a pair of jeans and a button up shirt, both black, and on the largest display there were endless files on various associates of Falcone, his remaining lieutenants, and their future plans. On the smaller displays, there were also camera feeds that he’d set up in key spots around the city, pictures he’d taken of the body earlier that night with the technology in his cowl, a digital police scanner, and a looping video from the local Gotham news outlet.

He blinked his reddened eyes and glanced over as the speaker came to stand beside him. She was nearly as tall as he was and twice his age with broad shoulders and militant posture, her greying hair pulled up into a tight bun. Neither conventionally attractive nor plain, she was made up of sharp and distinct features and exuded a natural air of authority. The lines of concern on her face creased ever deeper as she peered at him.

“You look terrible,” she stated bluntly.

“Don’t worry about me, Frida,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes.

Her expression turned hawkish as she responded, “I’m your godmother, Bruce, I cannot simply ‘stop worrying’. Especially since you moved out, it’s been dreadfully quiet upstairs without you.”

“They say absence makes the heart grow fond.”

Frida put her hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “Why not stay? You’re here most nights anyway. The manor is your home.”

Bruce looked away, “I just… need some time away. I’m working on some things right now. I need a little bit more work-life balance, I guess. When I’m here, it’s ‘work’ and… I want to be somewhere else when it’s not.”

Frida was reluctant, but she nodded a little, “Okay. How was it today anyway?”

“The perp found one of my throwing knives. Used it to cast a duplicate to frame me for the murder.” he leaned back in the chair, setting both hands atop his head, “I’ve got to be more careful about losing them.”

“It was much easier when they were just selling them on ebay, wasn’t it?” Frida joked.

Bruce smirked a little, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small orange vial, “I remember that. ‘Batarangs’, they called them.”

Frida watched as he tapped out a couple pills and downed them, “It’s good to see you smile again.” When he didn’t respond, she continued, “I… actually meant how did things go with Dr. Birch today.”

“Oh,” Bruce’s tone changed, his smile disappearing as his walls came back up, “It was fine.”

“I don’t mean to pry, I just…”

“I’m fine, Frida, really,” Bruce insisted firmly, “Just don’t worry okay? I’ll take care of it. I’m far more concerned about… all this.” He gestured at the screen before him.

Frida reluctantly looked away from him, her eyes immediately locating the image of the body. With a long career as an agent in the CIA under her belt, she was unphased by the graphic imagery. But this was an issue that had been going on for two months now and she and Bruce had spent many nights throwing ideas back and forth about the perpetrator in between the ongoing battle to bring down Falcone himself.

“Any new leads?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Bruce sighed, “Like a ghost. Whoever they are, they’re very efficient.”

“Why don’t you sleep on it? Don’t give me that look, it’s seven in the morning and you know stepping away from a problem for a while helps. Come back with fresh eyes tomorrow and we’ll brainstorm again. I’ll make tea.”

“Fine,” Bruce finally conceded. He stood and stretched, his spine making a series of pops, “If it’ll get you off my back.”

“You deserve that work-life balance, Bruce,” Frida responded, “Oh, and speaking of, don’t forget about the Gotham Environmental Committee’s charity gala. I suggest you take the night before off so you don’t show up looking so… ragged.”

“Ugh,” Bruce groaned, “I forgot all about that…”

“It’ll be good for Bruce Wayne to have a life outside of Batman. Especially when it involves a date with a talented woman. You might find there’s more to life than beating Gotham’s underworld to a pulp.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

But as he left, the sound of the anchor on the news feed followed him out and he felt the pit that was ever twisting in his gut grow tighter.

_“With this unsettling killing spree on the rise, Gotham’s citizens demand an answer. Will the GCPD finally take the threat of the murderous vigilante known as ‘Batman’ seriously?”_

**3**

Gotham was far from sleepy, even at seven am, but the traffic was more merciful in the early hours as Bruce drove down the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge in the golden glow of dawn. His cellphone sat in a cupholder beside him, hooked into the aux, and deep melodic beats played softly off of YouTube. The speakers were the only modestly updated feature in the car at all, which was rather old and unassuming.

 _Falcone himself can’t be the perp,_ he thought to himself, breaking down the same theories he’d been mulling over for weeks, _the GCPD’s mole confirmed what I suspected of his unravelling mental state. He’s convinced that Batman has finally gone ‘insane’._

Once on the throughway inside Gotham City limits, he took the Burnley exit. The neighborhoods here were shabby, lower middleclass at best, but he pulled up to a lanky apartment complex and parked in the back. Looming beside it was the grand structure of the monorail system that wound its way through the city, one of the Wayne family’s proudest contributions. But no one even recognized Bruce Wayne himself as he headed up the stairwell, fiddling with his sparce keychain with a frown fixed to his brow.

 _The only other kingpin powerful enough to take on Falcone is Oswald Cobblepot,_ he barely noticed the world around him as he pondered.

_But it’s unlikely. Each has been true to the truce they set up months ago and the murder methods are nothing like Cobblepot's usual tactics. If he wanted to take Falcone down himself, he wouldn’t bother with his lieutenants. Unless…_

His studio apartment was a bedroom with a small kitchen and bathroom attached. Random articles of clothing and some spare socks littered the ground and the few dishes he owned sat unwashed in the sink. The only window was covered by a heavy black curtain and the walls and windows rattled as the monorail train thundered by, causing his upstairs neighbor to swear loudly about the noise. Opposite his bed sat a small flat screen television on a stand, though its shelves consisted mostly of books and only a small handful of dvds.

Heading to the bathroom, Bruce stripped and let the water run in the standing shower, waiting for the temperature to heat up before stepping in. The air was soon thick with hot steam, but his aching body remained rigid. A great many pale, jagged scars marred his otherwise dark skin, souvenirs from his secret identity. He tried not to look at them and when he emerged from the bathroom, he dressed conservatively enough to hide them, even in the privacy of his own apartment. Then he collapsed upon his unkempt bed, exhausted and already feeling a cold, clammy sweat building upon his skin.

 _Relax,_ he willed his body desperately, _please just relax so I can sleep._

He tried deep breathing exercises. He lit incense and meditated and used mindfulness to identify where all of his physical stress was manifesting. He tried reading a book, but found himself re-reading the same paragraphs over and over, his strained mind unable to absorb the material. Nothing helped. Eventually he found himself at his medicine cabinet, reaching passed over-the-counter sleeping aids and CBD oil to another orange prescription bottle.

“I sleep maybe… two, three hours at best? When I can even get to sleep at all,” he’d told Dr. Birch when she’d written the prescription, his eyes red and sore.

“You’re under a lot of stress, Mr. Wayne. Correcting your sleeping patterns will help,” she’d responded, “Even as a night owl, you need those eight hours when you can get them.”

He stared at the bottle for a long moment before tapping out a pill and taking it with water. Images from his session with Dr. Birch kept flitting through his mind. Chunks of conversation replaying over and over like the news feed down in the base.

_“Sharing your memories about the death of your parents was very brave, Mr. Wayne. Thank you for trusting me with that. The pain is nothing to be ashamed of. You’re safe here.”_

So much time spent staring down at his own hands or examining the paintings and framed certifications on the walls. The elegant crown molding on the ceiling. Her neat desk with the framed photograph of she and her wife on their wedding day and his file sitting open on the polished wood.

_“The effects of witnessing violence echo throughout our lives. It becomes far more than just the loss of a single person or persons. Those feelings and that trauma, at least in part, can shape who we are, our lives and decisions, long after the event itself is over.”_

More images. Blood on his hands after beating a man senseless. A broken face, smeared with red, begging for mercy. Bruises blossoming upon his own skin, ceaseless fields of dying purple flowers.

_“You are not weak for feeling this pain. It is normal. It is human.”_

Pulling a broken molar from his own mouth, gunfire still ringing in his ears. A child crying and screaming for help. The laughter of an officer kneeling on the neck of a handcuffed man, choking. Dying. Dead.

“Who else have you talked to about your parents, Mr. Wayne?” Dr. Birch had asked.

“Just you and Frida, I guess,” Bruce responded, paused, and then added, “Well… there was one other. I met a boy when I was young... a year after my parents died.”

Darkness crept in like death, the images growing blurry, the sounds slowly silenced. It was a relief to no longer exist in the waking world. To know peace and quiet. Finally. And as everything around him faded, cradled in the abyss of sleep, a new world opened in his mind’s eye, a world of dreams and memory.

_“You’re safe here.”_


	3. Reminiscence: Freak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Flashback: A year after his parents have passed away, Bruce revisits the Monarch Theater, armed for vengeance. But things go awry when a thief attempts to steal his bike and in his emotionally charged state, Bruce commits a crime of passion._
> 
> ==========
> 
> Excerpt:
> 
> "A dull ringing filled his ears, blocking out all sound, and the world slowed to a jarring, grinding halt. What had he just done? He stared at the gun in his hands and they began to shake. All of the hot-blooded anger that had filled him just moments before drained in seconds, leaving him with nothing but frigid terror and guilt. His legs began moving before his mind could catch up, racing over to the place where the boy had fallen. The squeaky sound of the spinning front wheel of the bike was the first thing to come back to him, followed by the rain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Soundtrack:  
>   
> 1\. Bruce Rides Into Gotham  
> "Blood Red Summer" by Coheed and Cambria  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTTUdlay9is)
> 
> 2\. The Freak Show  
> "The Greatest Show Unearthed" by Creature Feature  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HXnfneef5YM)

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

PunkyBlooze

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Dumpster-Fire-Colored-Joker-Concept-Art-858235815) **

_All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze._

_This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen._

_For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

**Find My Art (18+ ONLY):**  
DeviantArt: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze)  
Instagram: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.instagram.com/punkyblooze)  
Twitter: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.twitter.com/punkyblooze)  
Facebook: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.facebook.com/punkyblooze)  
Live Streaming on Picarto: [@PunkyBlooze](https://picarto.tv/punkyblooze)

* * *

###  **Reminiscence: Freak**

**1**

It was raining softly outside Wayne Manor, the gentle patter accented by the faint, distant rumble of thunder. Bruce Wayne glanced back at the dark windows to make sure Frida was still in bed as he mounted his bike and then rode off down the long road towards Gotham in the darkness. The autumn air was chilled and sharp even through his windbreaker and he focused on the sensation, letting it consume him. It helped him to shake off the painful memories of riding this way with his parents.

It was a long ride into Gotham, especially for a thirteen-year-old, but it wasn’t the first time he’d made it. He was prepared and paced himself. Once inside the city, he stopped at a corner and opened up his backpack. As he peered inside, a glint of metal caught his eye and his gaze settled on the pistol. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, just looking at it made his heart begin to race and his palms sweat. He reached quickly passed it and grabbed the map he was looking for.

After examining the route he’d highlighted for himself, he continued on his way, sticking to the bike paths. As he rode, he couldn’t help remembering standing outside of the Monarch Theater with his parents, years ago. It was a ruined and dilapidated old thing, a shell of its former self, and Bruce didn’t quite understand his parent’s excitement.

“What’s so special about it?” he’d asked, “It’s kind of creepy.”

“This is the oldest theater in Gotham, Bruce,” his father had explained with a smile, “They used to have wonderful plays and musicals here and it was the first place to show silent films with live music.”

“It may not look like much now,” his mother added, “but we’re going to restore it and many other beautiful places. Park Row, Burnley, the Bowery. They’re some of this city’s oldest, most historic neighborhoods. It’s terrible to see them abandoned to rot like this. The people need help, support, and we can do that.”

Bruce gazed up at the theater now. After all the work his parents had put into it, it was closed down again. Old yellow police tape barred the entrances and the windows were covered with graffitied boards of plywood. He scowled deeply and moved to stand before the mouth of the ally beside it. Scrawled letters in black marker on the nearest piece of plyboard spelled out “CRIME ALLEY” with an arrow pointing towards the dimly lit passageways.

Bruce glanced around, making sure he was alone, before pulling the pistol out of his backpack and heading into the darkness. He didn’t have to go far before he came to the emergency exit on the side of the theater, the exit he and his parents had used the night of their deaths to avoid a few persistent paparazzi out front.

He took a moment to gaze upon the expertly crafted portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne that an anonymous citizen had spray painted on the wall of the abandon building beside the theater. Even now, a year after their deaths, there were a few tokens of appreciation left beneath it: flowers, cards, a single stuffed bear, slowly decaying in the wet, filthy ally. The portrait was a little weather worn, but mostly intact. Bruce gazed on his parent’s faces, the faces he saw in himself whenever he looked in a mirror. He had his father’s bright blue eyes, a dominant gene in the Wayne family, and his mother’s soft features and brown skin.

“Rest in peace,” he read the message that the artist had left beneath the portrait in a soft, forlorn voice, “Peace… But how can they rest in peace when they were _murdered?_ ”

His grip on the gun tightened and he faced away from the portrait, staring down the ally in the same spot he was when the gunman shot them before his eyes. His body shook with emotion, teeth clenching, heart pounding. Hatred welled in his heart and he kicked the nearest trash can as hard as he could, scattering the contents and swearing loudly.

“They’ll rest in peace when they have _justice!_ ” he snarled to the darkness, “When I find that man and _kill him!_ ”

Hot tears welled in his eyes and he stood there for a long moment, the rain pattering gently all around him. A sudden sound behind him caused him to jump and he spun around, the pistol poised to shoot in his outstretched hands. There, perched on Bruce’s bike was a boy about his own age with a great mop of messy brown hair that he’d attempted to dye green. He was dressed in shabby clothing far too light for the weather and had a black bandana tied about the lower half of his face. The source of the sudden sound however, was a small bat that was flapping angrily about the boy’s head as he tried to swat it away.

His eyes widened as they met Bruce’s, realizing he’d been caught in the act, and he kicked off hard, heading deeper into the ally. Bruce might have thought to block his passage, but he was terrified of the bat that continued to follow the boy, screeching angrily, and jumped out of the way. This momentary lapse in judgement quickly faded and he took up the chase.

“Hey! Stop, thief!” he shouted, sprinting as fast as he could, rage and panic building hotly in his stomach, “ _Stop!_ ”

But the boy was picking up speed. He was going to lose him. Before he even knew what he was doing, he’d pointed the gun at the thief and let off a single round with a loud bang that reverberated down the ally. The screech of the bat died as it fled from the excruciating sound. Far ahead, the bike tipped over and the boy tumbled off into a pile of garbage bags. At first, Bruce felt a rush of success. Yes! He’d gotten him! But that only lasted for about half a second before the weight of his actions descended on him.

A dull ringing filled his ears, blocking out all sound, and the world slowed to a jarring, grinding halt. What had he just done? He stared at the gun in his hands and they began to shake. All of the hot-blooded anger that had filled him just moments before drained in seconds, leaving him with nothing but frigid terror and guilt. His legs began moving before his mind could catch up, racing over to the place where the boy had fallen. The squeaky sound of the spinning front wheel of the bike was the first thing to come back to him, followed by the rain.

“No,” he breathed, looking down at the unmoving body of the boy, “No, no, no…”

The bandana he wore had been tugged down in the fall and his mouth hung slightly ajar, his eyes closed. Bruce’s eyes flickered between the bike, the boy, and the droplets of blood being swiftly washed away by the rain. Dropping to his knees, he placed the gun slowly on the ground, as if it might suddenly go off at any moment. As if it were some violent, horrid creature that he, in his foolishness, had thought he could control. He pressed his hands to his face, his eyes shut tight. He’d killed him. He’d murdered this boy. Over a _bike_.

“I’m… I’m s-sorry,” he gasped, hands moving to wrap around himself, rocking back and forth, “I’m so, so sorry… Please… No… Please!”

“Well, I mean…” a voice responded.

Bruce’s eyes shot wide open.

“Since you asked so nicely.”

He looked up to see the boy peering back at him, wincing in pain, but far from dead, and he was so overcome with relief that he leapt to his feet, crying out, “You’re alive!”

“Yay! Life!” the boy joined him, brandishing his fists victoriously, “Just a little bit more painful than before.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry—It was an… k-kind of a… sort of…”

“Yeah, I—Fuck!” the boy yelped as he tried to get up and clutched his thigh where the bullet had just grazed him, “I get that a lot. Help me up, would ya?”

Bruce was eager to help, pulling the other boy up from the pile of trash and allowing him to lean heavily on his shoulder for support. The boy was much smaller and scrawnier than Bruce, who was already rather large for his age, with a gaunt face and big, mischievous blue-green eyes. He tentatively set his foot down a few times, testing how much weight he could put on it.

“Ooh! That’s tender,” he winced.

“I’ve got a cellphone, I’ll call 9-1-1,” Bruce said, “You need a hospital.”

“Hospital,” the boy snorted with laughter, “No, no, no. I just need to get home. I’ll be fine.”

“But you can’t walk,” Bruce frowned, “How are you going to get home?”

“Why, _you_ , of course!” the boy grinned impishly, “On that lovely, shiny bike of yours. I’ll ride on the pegs. It’s the least you could do after, you know, shooting me.”

Bruce felt his face flush with color, “I… I guess—Yeah, sure. Can you hold yourself up for a minute?”

The boy set his foot down gently, managing to balance himself as Bruce detached. He first moved towards the bike before remembering the gun, then backtracked and swept it up. He put the safety on and returned it to his backpack. Then he picked up the bike and mounted the seat, gesturing for the boy to join him.

“Um… my name’s Bruce. Bruce Wayne,” he offered bashfully and the boy’s eyes widened with recognition and understanding.

“Well do yourself a favor, Brucie-boy,” he said after a moment, hopping on the back pegs and gripping the taller boy’s shoulders for balance, “Keep that last name to yourself.”

“How come?” Bruce asked, surprised.

“Well, personally, the words ‘billionaire’ and ‘kidnapping’ and ‘ransom’ come to mind, but it’s up to you!” he sniggered darkly, “Anyway, I’m Jay, nice to meet you!”

**2**

Within view of the bustling, colorful stretch of Amusement Mile, just across the Rogers Yacht basin, a strange attraction was tucked into a deserted little corner of Gotham. As Bruce rode closer, he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but he could feel his excitement building. There were a great many adults walking the stretch along the water, those heading in quivering with anticipation, those heading out gushing about what they’d just seen. The youngest participants seemed to be older teens, who eyed the two young boys in surprise as they road by. Ahead was what looked to be a great warehouse enclosed by a tall barbed wire fence.

Above the double door entrance to the warehouse, an illuminated sign with elegant circus lettering read “The Freak Show”. Smoke machines obscured the structure heavily and eerie lights cut through the gloom, creating a myriad of ethereal effects. Its many windows were all lit up, some with a dark sinister glow and others with vivid violent colors. Music and effects played across a sprawling speaker system and the scent of popcorn and sounds of screams and laughter came flowing all the way up to the gate.

“There you is, Jay,” a thickly accented voice called to them, “We was gettin’ worried.”

Two clowns flanked the entrance to the Freak Show, both more creepy than funny in appearance. The one that had spoken was a goliath of a man with a round belly and a rough beard below his painted white face. He wore a colorful smock, with many pockets stuffed with change to break large bills and bright paper bracelets to distribute to paying clients.

Jay waved to him, “George, I gotta get in! I can’t really walk. Where’s Mom?”

“‘Ow you always managing to get fucked up all the time?” George frowned suspiciously at Bruce, “And who’s this then?”

“A friend.”

“Really?” His tone was genuinely shocked and he looked at Bruce as though trying to deduce what on Earth was wrong with him.

Jay rolled his eyes and stuck out his injured leg, “Come _on_ , this shit fucking hurts.”

George peered at the bloodstain on Jay’s pant leg and then nodded, “Go on, get in. Mum’s in her trailer, takin’ the night off.”

As they rode slowly through the gate, Bruce became very aware of the second clown. He was extremely tall, nearly as tall as George, but his opposite in every other way. Narrow and lanky, Bruce could tell that his face was hallowed and gaunt even without the accenting make-up that made him skeletal in appearance. Everything about him was entirely drained of color, starkly black and white: his suit, his bowler hat, his chalky skin and black lips. Even his eyes were milky and dead, although Bruce could feel him watching. There was something deeply sinister, something _wrong_ , about him that went far deeper than clothing or face paint. A strange, instinctual urge in Bruce’s gut screamed at him to run. Run from this walking corpse of a man. Jay’s hands gripped Bruce’s shoulders ever tighter as they hurried passed him and relaxed only when they were riding along the inner periphery of the warehouse.

“Who was that?” Bruce managed to ask once the gate was far behind.

Jay needed no further clues as to whom he meant, “Our Mime. Giovanni.”

Something in his tone told Bruce that Giovanni wasn’t a topic Jay had an interest in pursuing. Perhaps he too had felt that powerful desire to escape his dead gaze and was too relieved to be free of him to waste that freedom discussing captivity. Instead he gave Bruce directions and soon they found themselves standing outside of a large trailer decked out in pumpkin string lights, fake cobwebs, and plastic bats. It even sported a pink flamingo speared into the crusty dirt outside that had been painted to look like a clown.

The sound of someone screaming on a television echoed from the inside, followed quickly by great, whooping laughter. “Mom!” Jay cried, knocking on the door relentlessly.

The laughing voice answered, “Oh, come in, baby! Come in!”

Inside, the trailer was spacious, but cluttered with personal effects. Clothing, costumes, opened boxes of make-up and prosthetics, everywhere you looked there was something fascinating and new. Sprawled on the couch with her bare feet draped over her neighbor’s lap was a wiry, broad-shouldered woman of middle age whose permed hair (or was it a wig?) sat upon her head like a great fluffy cloud. Her bronze skin made the bright colors of her evening robe and make up stand out by contrast.

She gestured with a fevered wave of her hand for Jay to come to her and said, “You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve tried to get John to watch a scary movie, it’s to die for.”

John was the man beside her and, as if to accentuate her statement, he screwed up his face hilariously at whatever film was playing, “Oh! Lord…”

Jay scoffed, “But you work in The Freak Show, how do you not like scary movies?”

“Need I remind you both that I am in costume design and do not actively participate in your shenanigans?” John responded, though he gave a wry smile, “Some of us don’t much like the feeling of being scared.”

Bruce was so enthralled by this eclectic new setting that he didn’t notice how surprising his entrance was to the two adults in the room, who stared at him much like George had, though with less offensive intent. It wasn’t until he became aware that no one was speaking that he realized that he was figure of great interest. Half a second later, the woman gave a little shake of her head as though to rid herself of this shock and asked quickly, “Who is this, love?”

“He’s a friend,” Jay lied again, “Offered to bring me home when I fell and _this_ happened.”

He showed her his leg. She gasped, leaping to her feet—she was surprisingly tall—and then scowling at him, “Again? You weren’t out causing trouble, were you?”

“I wasn’t!” Jay groaned, “I really just fell—There was broken glass or something. Come on, Bruce, back me up!”

“Uh,” Bruce stammered, caught between the urge not to lie and the potential consequences of the truth, “Y-Yeah, I guess so.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as she examined the wound, but eventually she sighed and pulled back, “John, can you—Oh! Thank you.”

John was already grabbing the First Aid kit from its place on the counter, utilizing a conveniently placed step stool for he was quite short in stature, and swiftly brought it over. Soon, Jay was sitting on a chair in the trailer’s kitchen area, whistling as the woman washed the blood away. Her broad hands were gentle and precise as she held the shallow wound closed and placed a few butterfly bandages across it to hold it together. Bruce couldn’t watch.

“I don’t have the stomach for it either,” John said to him kindly, seeing the woozy expression on his face, “Mom’s the medic.”

“I wish I did,” Bruce responded, a bit downtrodden, “My father was a doctor. He could handle anything.”

“Well it doesn’t happen overnight,” the woman said conversationally, “It takes time to adjust to it. People just don’t like the sight of their own insides.”

“I like my insides,” Jay said cheerfully, watching closely as she worked.

“Well take it easy, would you?”

Jay pulled his pants back up once she’d finished and got right to his feet, testing it, “I will, I promise.”

The woman smiled as she put everything back in the first aid kit, “Bruce, was it? Thank you for helping him home, honey. Not many folks would be so kind.”

“Er,” Bruce mumbled guiltily, “It’s… no problem at all, Ms.…?”

She waved a hand dismissively, “Oh, just call me Mom, everyone does.”

“Mother of Misfits and Maladies,” Jay said theatrically with a flourish of his hands and Mom responded by giving an equally dramatic bow.

“Are you boys heading back out?” she inquired.

“Yep!” Seizing Bruce’s wrist, Jay tugged him back towards the door, “Come with me!”

“Don’t you scare that nice boy, Jay!” Mom scolded him as they went, “You behave!”

“I will!” Jay pulled him out of the trailer, his expression full of mischief, and Bruce couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer strangeness of him.

“Thanks,” he finally managed to say, “for not telling them, you know…about the gun.”

Jay waved his hand dismissively, perfectly emulating Mom, “What’s a few bullet holes among friends?”

Friends. Bruce hadn’t had any friends in a long time. “Are they your parents?” he asked.

“Mom is,” Jay said, practically skipping as he led the way to the back door of the warehouse, “Sort of. She adopted me. But John’s more like an uncle.”

“You’re an orphan?”

He put the back of his wrist to his forehead in feigned heartache, “Tragic, I know. But I guess that makes two of us huh?”

He opened the door and any unpleasant feelings Bruce may have had about being reminded of orphanhood were chased away by the bizarre new sights before him. The first floor of the warehouse was bustling with people and decorated to emulate its name sake: The Freak Show. With large striped tents spattered with fake blood set up all around, promising terrifying attractions within, a mini-Ferris wheel, and multiple concession stands selling sweets, snacks, and pizza, the place was like a carnival from Hell. Actors decked out in all kinds of horrifying prosthetics and costumes stalked the floor, interacting with the crowd. But despite how scary everything looked on the outside and the screams echoing from the floors above, many of the people the boys passed by were grinning and full of laughter.

“So,” Jay said, looking back at him with a smirk, “You want to get revenge for your parents, right?”

Bruce was taken aback by this, “What?”

Jay rolled his eyes impatiently, “Back in the ally. You said they’ll rest in peace when you have justice. You were having a total fit about it.”

Bruce stopped walking and pulled his arm away from him. Jay seemed confused and turned back to face him, “What? Oh, come on, don’t be like that. It’s okay. If someone ever hurt Mom, I’d want to kill them too.”

When Bruce didn’t answer, he continued, “So what’s the plan? You just going to walk up to him like _that_? Just yourself with a gun?”

Bruce frowned, “What’s wrong with just me?”

“Well you might be tall, but you’re still just some twelve-year-old kid.”

“I’m thirteen actually and I’m not a kid.”

“What _ever_ ,” Jay snorted, “No grown ass adult is going to be intimidated by _you._ And your aim is terrible with that gun. What if you miss again?”

“Gee, thanks,” Bruce said sarcastically, scowling at him.

“Hey, don’t get defensive,” Jay crooned, throwing an arm amiably across his shoulders and leading him through the crowd, “I do have a point, you know. You see, I think I know a few places where your perp might show up. Places that bad people like to go in Gotham.”

Bruce’s eyes widened and he looked seriously at Jay, “You do?”

“Absolutely,” he laughed, “But we don’t want people seeing our faces, remembering us, giving descriptions to cops. If you want to be a killer, you have to think like a killer, right? Mike Myers, Freddie Kruger, Jason—What do they all have in common?”

“They’re not real?”

“Ha-ha,” Jay said in a mocking tone, “No. They’ve got _masks._ They’re _scary._ We’re just kids. But working here, I scare the absolute _piss_ out of grown adults every night! That’s what we’ve got to do to your perp. We scare him senseless, then _bam_!” He mimed shooting with a finger gun.

“I dunno,” Bruce said, feeling his hands starting to sweat at the memory of shooting Jay, “I don’t... think I want to touch a gun ever again.”

Jay shrugged, unphased, “Fine, we’ll get you a bat.”

“You really think that will work?”

“Why not? It works in here, doesn’t it? That’s how we do things,” he said, gesturing all around and grinning a wide, crooked grin, “Welcome to the Freak Show, Brucie-boy!”


	4. Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A figure from Bruce's past unexpectedly returns and while exploring the ruins of Gotham, they reconnect in surprising ways. Meanwhile, Falcone makes a deal with a distasteful ally in a sinister plot to exact vengeance upon the Batman._
> 
> ==========
> 
> Excerpt:
> 
> "Their eyes met and Bruce knew he couldn’t tell him otherwise. What had he really done all these years but relive the cycle of vengeance again and again, every night he donned the cowl of Batman? He knew now that in his heart of hearts, every single thug he beat down was the man who killed his parents, the man he’d never caught. Every time he saved someone, inside, he was just saving himself. How could he look another in the eye and tell him he was wrong for wanting the same thing?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts: As an adult, Jay's appearance is heavily inspired by the actor Tómas Lemarquis  
>   
> Concept Art of Jay/Joker:  
> [  
>  ](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-Jay-Concept-Art-862193631)  
>   
>   
> Concept Art of Bruce Wayne:  
> [  
>  ](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-Bruce-Wayne-and-Joker-850208443)  
> Click on any of the images to go to the full artwork at my page on DeviantArt @PunkyBlooze (Link Below)
> 
> ==========
> 
> From the Soundtrack:  
>   
> Scene 1: From Within the Bar  
> "Moor" by Every Time I Die  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q82B1A1yMfQ&list=PLmn0lxfD9DrkhahMg6AWe1ETzJMWFd50Y&index=4)

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

PunkyBlooze

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Dumpster-Fire-Colored-Joker-Concept-Art-858235815) **

_All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze._

_This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen._

_For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

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* * *

###  **Chapter 2: Friend**

**1**

The temperature was cool that evening as Bruce stepped out, dressed in sweatpants, a hoodie, and his running shoes. It was twilight in Gotham, the hour of transformation, and the moon grinned down at him among vivid pink clouds. A few stars were already glinting in the sky and all the streetlights were coming alive as he began his run. It was at the time of year when the temperature was dependent upon the sun’s presence in the sky: sweltering in the day and frozen at night.

“Hey, Bill,” he said as he passed by a ragged looking man sitting upon a bench not far from his apartment. His dark face was obscured by a large bushy grey beard and wild eyebrows and he was gently rocking back and forth.

“Oh!” Bill’s eyes lit up with excitement and he smiled, many of his teeth missing, “Good evening, Mr. Wayne.”

But his smile disappeared as he pointed towards the park nearby, “Careful up that way. There’s a dread feelin’ up there. Somethin’ in the shadows—not right. Not right.”

“Those kids bothering you again?” Bruce asked, slowing to a stop.

“No, no,” he said, swatting at invisible things about his head, “Just a feelin’. Bad feelin’. Shadows.”

“You need anything, Bill?”

The man smiled at him again, “No, Mr. Wayne. Not tonight.”

Bruce nodded a little and looked towards the park, “I’ll check it out, okay?”

North City Park was the home of the Giordano Botanical Gardens and both were once beautiful, bustling places in Gotham. But now the park and the gardens had fallen into disrepair, the plants grew wild and squatters often holed up in the abandon greenhouse. During the afternoon, groups of trouble-making teens got drunk and caused mischief, but after dark, even they fled the haunted place.

As he jogged around the misty periphery, Bruce kept an eye out for anything particularly problematic, but it was quiet tonight. The trees that had been baren skeletons for months were coming back to life and little green fingers reached for the heavens from the long-frozen ground all across the park. However, it wasn’t long before Bruce found himself glancing over his shoulder, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched. He sped up, frowning, and trying to catch any sign or subtle glimpse of anyone who might be tailing him. But there was nothing and no one around.

His anxiety began to escalate regardless, his mind making enemies out of darkness. He ran faster, Bill’s warning following him. “ _Somethin’ in the shadows—not right.”_ Images from his dream kept reappearing in his mind: Jay’s grinning face, the bike wheel spinning in the rain, the lights of the Freak Show. But as he ran, they devolved into something more sinister. Giovanni’s dead, white eyes. Giovanni’s black lips, pulling back to reveal rows of sharpened teeth. Giovanni standing, silhouetted in the glow of flame, his body twisted and mutilated. Tension was building behind his eyes and he shook his head, trying to rid himself of the oncoming headache caused by his own stress.

“Calm down,” he muttered to himself in irritation, “Get ahold of yourself…”

He changed course, ducking into an ally that led through to the next street over and outside a shabby dive bar he slowed down, taking deep breaths and trying to slow his heart. He bent over, his hands on his knees. Giovanni’s eyes watched him even in the waking world. _Run. Run from this walking corpse of a man._ Loud, hardcore punk music reverberated from the bar nearby and as the singer let forth a guttural scream, Bruce felt someone close behind.

He reacted before the hand could even set upon his shoulder, grabbing the wrist and twisting it defensively behind its owners back. The woman let out a sharp yelp of surprise and struggled viciously against him.

“Let me go, you fucking lunatic!” she snarled.

“Oh!” he released her immediately, holding his hands up in surrender, “I-I’m so sorry, I thought you were—”

She jerked away from him, furious, and Bruce could see she was clearly just a punk from the bar. Her head was shaved and she wore a studded jacket strewn with band patches. “I was only asking if you were okay, asshole!” she snarled over him.

“I’m very sorry,” Bruce stammered again, “I didn’t hear you—”

But it was too late. She stormed away, giving him one last glower of fear and disgust as she retreated back to the bar, slamming the door. He groaned, kicking himself for scaring the daylights out of a caring stranger. The clawing anxiety mingled now with terrible shame and he collapsed onto a metal bench nearby, head in his hands.

“Yikes,” a voice behind him said with an air of amusement, “Havin’ a bad night there, bud?”

“Huh?” Bruce looked back towards the bar.

He wondered how he could have missed the man’s presence before. He was a small, scrawny thing, his head shaved on all sides. The hair left on top was vibrant green and looked as if he’d drenched it in hairspray and then slept on it for a week. The knitted long-sleeve shirt he wore was thread bare and full of stringy holes and his cheap pleather pants were red and filthy and fraying about the knees above a pair of heavy black steel-toed boots. Around his waist, a thick bike chain was strung almost like a belt, affixed with a lock.

“You were really tweakin’ out there,” the man continued, approaching him, “You alright?”

In the dying light, Bruce couldn’t make out the details of his face, only the glowing ember of the cigarette in his mouth and the reflections of light upon his metal piercings. He looked away again, trying to breathe. Trying to calm the chaos in his head.

“Yeah.” He said tersely, running a hand over his face, “I’m fine.”

The stranger’s eyes remained on him for a moment and then suddenly he whistled low. “Well, well, _well,_ ” he crooned in delight, sliding down onto the bench beside him, “If it isn’t _the_ Bruce Wayne. Out slumming with the commoners, how scandalous!”

“What? I’m not—” Bruce was taken aback by this, but was finally able to see the man clearly once he’d sat down.

His was a strange face, but not without a certain haunting beauty; His cheeks and eye sockets were hallowed, bags hidden beneath red make up, and his pierced eyebrows were shaved smooth. As he spoke, Bruce could see a distinct golden cap on one of his teeth and both of his earlobes were stretched rather wide by 1" black gauges. But most distinct were the large blue-green orbs that met his own and the curve of his lips as he smiled. Bruce felt his own mouth fall slightly ajar as he stared back at him, his eyes lighting up with recognition.

“Good to see you again, Brucie-boy,” Jay said with a smirk, taking a long drag off his cigarette.

**2**

Within walking distance of the hustle and bustle of Gotham Square, a monolith of luxury and entertainment stretched skywards: The Empire Casino Resort. A sprawling, modern attraction pandering to every kind of gambling addict imaginable that raked in massive profits, it was one of Carmine Falcone’s favorite haunts. Tonight, he sat at the green felt craps table, looking irritable and sipping on his scotch with the air of a man in too deep.

“Why don’t you try blackjack, baby?” the beautiful woman sitting beside him crooned, her sequin dress casting tiny glimmers of light all about her, “The dice have got it in for you tonight.”

“What do you know, you dumb broad?” he snapped at her, “It’ll happen—it always happens! I always win!”

Scowling and offended, she got up and left him seething at the table. He rolled the dice and came up short once again, slamming his fist down and swearing as the nervous dealer swept up his lost chips. Nearby was a rather intimidating man in a black suit and the dealer had seen what this goon could do to anyone who got under his boss’s skin.

“Sounds like you should take that advice,” Falcone’s head snapped around to face the source of the smug voice, “I don’t think the operation could stand many more losses at this rate.”

The man before him was dressed in business casual: ironed khaki slacks and shined shoes with a crisp white button up shirt. His hair was styled in a slick, attractive fashion above dark eyes and a genial smile. Falcone glowered deeply at him.

“About time you showed up, Hall,” he downed the rest of his scotch and rose, leaving the glass on the table, “Follow me.”

Outside of the casino, a limousine pulled around to pick them up and at his boss’s bidding, the bodyguard hopped up front with the driver. Falcone didn’t address Hall at first, instead rustling through the minifridge for another bottle of scotch. He also made no effort to hide his disdain for the other man, sighing heavily after sipping his new drink and saying, “How did it come down to this? All that’s left of my leaders, my men in charge, is a coward and a fuckin’ Nazi.”

“Oh no,” Hall said politely, “I’m not a Nazi, Mr. Falcone, I’m an Identitarian. I disavow the—”

“Yeah, yeah, save me the theatrics. I’ve seen your goons with the shaved heads and the swastikas,” Falcone cut him off, “I work with you because you’re efficient and you get the job done, not because I buy your ethno-state bullshit.”

Hall licked his lips and leaned back in the leather seat, “Then how can I help you, Mr. Falcone?”

“I need you to take up position at the warehouse, you and all your best men. Hold it down until the shipment arrives, arm yourselves to the teeth. Under _no_ circumstances are you to leave or let that fucking lunatic get out alive when he comes for you, you understand me?”

Hall bowed his head, “Of course, Mr. Falcone. Consider it done.”

Falcone downed the rest of his drink and peered at Hall, eyes betraying his level of intoxication. “I’ll give you this, Hall, at least you got balls. Phillips, that little pussy, came to me falling apart, shaking in his fucking boots—Bah!”

He waved his hand angrily, “And all the small guys, they’ve just been bolting left and right. And _stealing_ from me! Rats, they’re all _rats!_ Stinking, cowardly rats running from what? A freak in a fucking mask.”

“Oh, I absolutely agree, Mr. Falcone,” Hall said, his eyes glinting in the dim light, “The Batman _must_ be eliminated. And we _must_ be unified on that front. Anyone who isn’t with us is against us and deserves the same fate.”

Falcone nodded in agreement, “Yes, that’s exactly the sort of attitude we need! Do this for me, Hall, bring me the Bat’s head, and you’ll have power beyond anything you’ve seen yet.”

The Nazi smiled ever wider, “It will be my pleasure. But what about Phillips? Do you need him taken care of?”

“Oh, don’t worry about Phillips,” a deeply sinister look came over Falcone’s face as he spoke, “I have a very important role for him to play.”

**3**

“I fucking _love_ tacos,” Jay said through a mouthful of cheese, ground beef, and tortilla as he devoured the burrito Bruce had bought him.

“Try not to spit it all out then,” his company responded, noting how he ate like a half-starved coyote, “Are you sure you’re not cold?”

But Jay dismissed him, apparently comfortable even though Bruce could see his breath clouding when he exhaled. Jay was leading him through a maze of allies and side streets, but Bruce was familiar with all of them. He almost wondered if Jay was being deliberately confusing about which paths he chose, as though he wanted to make sure Bruce was too turned around to figure out where they were headed. But he knew, even before he saw the looming Ferris wheel ahead.

“How is Mom and everyone at The Freak Show?” Bruce asked, “Is it even still running?”

“Ah, sadly, no,” Jay said evasively, bunching up the wrapper for the burrito once he’d finished and tossing it over his shoulder, “The show ended after… well, it’s ancient news now.”

Bruce caught the wrapper and redirected it to a trash can, “What happened?”

“Ooh! Right here, come on!” Jay raced out of the ally and threw his arms open wide, “Ta-da!”

Before them lay the grand stretch of Amusement Mile, or what was left of it anyway. The park had gone bankrupt and been abandon when Bruce was in high school and it had stayed that way for over a decade. Its decadence had long rusted away and now the old rides stretched along the pier like the bones of an animal long-dead, open and decaying beneath the starry spring sky. But this smoking husk of childhood did nothing but excite Jay, who located a weak spot in the fence and lifted it up for Bruce to climb through.

Noticing the precise severance of the chain links, he asked, “Have you been here before?”

“Oh yeah, I cut this spot open,” Jay responded proudly, “Although… I guess it’s a little small for your _hulking physique._ Hang on.”

He pulled the drawstring bag he wore off of his back and extracted a pair of bolt cutters, using them to widen the hole in the fence so as to make it more comfortable for the larger man to fit. “At least one of us got bigger since we were kids,” he said as he worked.

“I dunno about this, Jay,” Bruce looked around, but this part of Gotham was relatively deserted these days.

“Oh, come on, live a little,” Jay crooned, “It’ll be an adventure, just like old times!”

Bruce scoffed, but Jay caught him smiling as he ducked under the fence and into the abandoned theme park. Before Batman he might have found the place creepy, but now that he greeted shadows like old friends, it was almost beautiful. Nature was slowly creeping up around all of the old buildings, bursting through concrete and twisting about metal poles. It felt post-apocalyptic and somehow that made him feel strangely at peace.

“Things have gotten so interesting in Gotham since I was last here, I love it!” Jay exclaimed, “And the _Batman!_ ” He fanned himself dramatically, “I remember _my_ first crime fighting vigilante.”

He looked suggestively at Bruce, whose gaze became tinted with melancholy as he looked away, “I dunno about that. They’ve been saying on the news that he’s a killer.”

“What?” Jay blew a raspberry at him, “Nooo, don’t listen to those hacks! I’ve been following _all_ the stories on him. Batman _doesn’t_ kill people. It’s literally his whole thing.”

“How do you explain all the deaths then?”

Jay shrugged noncommittally, spinning himself about a wobbly pole affixed with crooked directional signs, “It’s probably just the pigs. The GCPD wants a scapegoat after all those police brutality protests. They’re setting him up so they can get rid of the criminals and have _him_ take the fall so they can be the big heroes. Two birds, one stone.”

“But—” Bruce didn’t get to finish however. Jay had noticed an old popcorn stand and raced over to it with the excitement of a child at the height of the park’s glory.

Hopping right over the stand like a stunt double sliding across the hood of a car, Jay spun around and pointed at Bruce, “You, sir, look like you could use a bag of popcorn! Well step no further, you can have as much as you’d like for the low, low price of twenty-five cents!”

He held out his hand and Bruce looked between it and his expectant face for a moment before responding sarcastically, “Oh, you’re being _serious?_ ”

“Come on, play along,” Jay begged and he rolled his eyes before handing over a single quarter.

Jay peered at it suspiciously with an air of showmanship, holding it up to the non-existent light for examination and even biting it before scoffing and shoving it back at him, “Bleh! This fake money’s no good here, sir!”

“Fake?” Bruce laughed, taking the quarter, but his brow furrowed in surprise as he looked down and realized that it _was_ in fact a fake quarter, with a little image of a clown on it instead of George Washington, “When did you…?”

“Oh, _there_ it is!” Jay leaned over and pretended to pluck the real quarter from behind Bruce’s ear, “Sneaky thing.”

Bruce smirked, “Nice sleight of hand. I bet you’re suspiciously good at cards too.”

“I’m just a simple popcorn salesman,” Jay said, walking the quarter expertly back and forth across his knuckles, “I’m sure I don’t know anything about such dubious practices.”

As the two continued to explore, they inevitably came to the only roller coaster in the park and Jay led the way to the docking station and then to the maintenance paths that ran parallel to the tracks, all the way up to the top of the first and largest hill. From there, the view of Gotham at night was breathtaking. For all it’s faults, Bruce couldn’t help but be filled with pride and wonder as he gazed out at it.

“Beautiful,” he sighed.

“What, this old thing?” Jay pulled at his dingy shirt for effect and Bruce grinned.

“How is it that you’re still the same weird little joker I met as a kid?”

“Oh, a _joker_ , am I?” Jay inquired, “How is it that I keep getting the feeling that you’re laughing _at_ me, not _with_ me?”

But the two laughed together for a time, Bruce looking out at Gotham as Jay faced the opposite direction, leaning back against the rails. A companionable silence fell between them and it wasn’t until Bruce glanced over at him that he realized Jay’s smile had suddenly disappeared. A strange expression was on his face now as he looked out over the dark waters of the Rogers Yacht basin. Bruce turned to see what he was looking at and his gaze fell upon it instinctually.

The warehouse that had once hosted the Freak Show sat gloomily out there in the dark. No longer a bright collection of haunted attractions and lively characters, it seemed it was serving a more conventional purpose these days. A few lights were on here and there inside of it and a truck or two was parked in the lot, but aside from that it was empty and dead.

“What happened?” Bruce asked once more and perhaps it was the genuine concern in his voice that made Jay look away for a moment before actually answering.

“Mom,” he said slowly, as though the words were sharp things he had to pull out with effort, “Mom’s uh… She died… a couple years ago.”

Bruce was struck by the emotion in his voice and set a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, the way Frida always did, “I’m sorry, Jay. I’m all ears if you want to talk about it.”

“She ah…” he examined his own feet as he spoke, “She was murdered. It was pretty bad… and after that, well… everything else just fell apart.”

A long moment of silence passed as this information sank in. Bruce felt again that old wound from the past, the haunting loss of his parents. Seeing their lifeless, glossy eyes staring up at him as blood pooled about their bodies. The horror of the gruesome death of a loved one. Without thinking about it, he wrapped an arm around Jay’s shoulders tightly.

“I know how it feels,” he said and they both knew how much he meant it, “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Jay took a deep breath and offered a small smile, “It’ll be okay.”

He nodded a little to himself as though agreeing with some internal monologue, “Because I’m going to make him pay for what he did to her. I’m going to make him _suffer._ ”

Their eyes met and Bruce knew he couldn’t tell him otherwise. What had he really done all these years but relive the cycle of vengeance again and again, every night he donned the cowl of Batman? He knew now that in his heart of hearts, every single thug he beat down was the man who killed his parents, the man he’d never caught. Every time he saved someone, inside, he was just saving himself. How could he look another in the eye and tell him he was wrong for wanting the same thing?

Bruce’s hand fell from his shoulder, returning to his side, and after a moment Jay’s hand slipped into his, fingers interlacing. He held on as if for life itself as they gazed out across years long passed and love lost.


	5. Reminiscence: Man-Bat and the Killer Clown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Flashback: After obtaining frightful Halloween masks to hide their identities, young Bruce Wayne and his strange new friend, Jay, set up a stake-out to catch the criminal who killed Bruce's parents._
> 
> ==========
> 
> Excerpt:
> 
> "He looked over his shoulder at the boys chasing him and Bruce could see the terror in his eyes. How they must have looked to him, two ghastly figures in terrifying masks running him down at night. Bruce felt Jay pull one of the bats out of his bag and wave it above his head, letting out a well-practiced and unnerving cackle."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Soundtrack:  
>   
> Scene 1: On the Hunt  
> "Kill Somebody" by Yungblud  
> [Click Me For Lyric Video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUFf-mAGRLY&list=PLmn0lxfD9DrmPr-EQIoian-aB4MxZZ8qE&index=40)

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

PunkyBlooze

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Dumpster-Fire-Colored-Joker-Concept-Art-858235815) **

_All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze._

_This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen._

_For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

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* * *

###  **Reminiscence: Man-Bat and the Killer Clown**

**1**

Bruce hadn’t been this excited in over a year. With Jay riding on the pegs of his bike and directing him where to go, the two of them traversed the grimiest parts of Gotham together. Fear was coursing through him, but it mingled now with purpose and adrenaline and with that he was able to conquer it. Though it couldn’t be left unsaid that the mask he now wore was a great help. It felt as though helpless young Bruce Wayne had disappeared behind the face of a ferocious and intimidating threat.

Earlier, Jay had led him to a stand on the ground floor of the Freak Show where yet another clown stood, this one selling masks. He was a quiet pot-bellied fellow with an oddly misshapen face, but a great big smile, and while there were some cheap, plastic masks among his wares, he was clearly an artist at what he did. A lot of his masks were more like intricate props out of movies than cheap Halloween material and sported price tags in the hundreds and more. He greeted the two boys as they approached.

“Your masks have all sold, Jay!” he said cheerfully and the smaller boy whooped with joy, “Keep it up and one day you’ll be as good as I am.”

“That’s actually why we’re here, Jasper,” Jay said, “I was wondering if we could borrow two of your masks.”

Jasper gave him a look, “You aren’t causing trouble now, are ya?”

“No, no, no!” Jay lied spectacularly with a laugh and threw an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, “My buddy and I just want to enjoy Halloween! It’s only a few days away and, well, it’s just not the same without a good mask.”

Bruce was sensing a pattern as Jasper looked at him in surprise and commented, “Is that right?” He pondered for a moment, but then smiled and continued, “Well okay, I suppose since you’ve helped me out so much, I’ll loan you boys a mask each. At least until Halloween is over. Choose any from the top here.”

He pointed at the cheaper wares displayed at the front of the stand, like stuffed animal prizes at a carnival game. Jay immediately snatched up a mask depicting the face of a creepy clown. But Bruce wasn’t so sure, taking his time as he browsed.

“My advice,” Jasper said, “is to pick something _you_ find scary. _Become_ what you yourself fear the most and it will give you power over it.”

“What I fear the most,” Bruce repeated thoughtfully, peering at each mask in turn.

“You were pretty scared of that little bat in the ally,” Jay teased and Bruce felt his face heat up in embarrassment.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Jasper assured him, seeing Bruce’s discomfort, “Me? I hate mice. Don’t know why, but they give me the heebie-jeebies.” He gave an exaggerated shudder, making the boy smile again.

“I’ve got just the thing for you,” he said, reaching down beneath the stand and pulling out a mask with a dramatized likeness of a vampire bat, “It’s a little more expensive, so be careful with it, okay?”

“Wow, thank you,” Bruce said gratefully as he took it and Jasper winked.

Even though the mask was truly horrifying to him, he could tell it was something of quality and when he pulled the drawstring behind his head it fit snuggly, holding itself in place. He looked at Jay, who suddenly threw his hands up in excitement.

“I know!” He cried, “We’ll be Man-Bat and the Killer Clown!”

Now all they needed was weapons, but Jay had a plan for that as well. He led Bruce to a little closet tucked into one of the dark, uninhabited corners of the warehouse and pulled from it two baseball bats, one made of shiny blue metal and the other solid wood. Both were now poking out of the top of Bruce’s drawstring bag, which was closed as tight as possible to keep them from toppling out.

Jay directed him as before, leading him into darker and shabbier parts of the city as they went, grateful that the rain from before had ceased. Prostitutes and drug dealers hung out on the corners, not that Bruce knew enough to recognize them, and clusters of homeless citizens huddled around fires started in dingy metal trash cans. In all the dark allies it seemed that malicious eyes were watching. There were no bright, boisterous Halloween decorations here and in the middle of the road, a smashed pumpkin was being slowly ground into the asphalt by every passing car.

**2**

The night eventually found them perched atop the second story roof of an abandoned building via a rickety old fire escape. Their masks had been set aside for now so they could utilize a large pair of binoculars to watch the people below. Along with the bats, Jay had retrieved a bag of his own from the closet that was filled with a curious assortment of pre-packed items including the binoculars, a swiss army knife, a hammer, bolt cutters, matches, a length of dirty climbing rope, a pack of cigarettes, and assorted survival tools. The item that really interested Bruce however was the butterfly knife that Jay idly twirled about as they assessed potential criminals.

“Mom said I couldn’t keep it,” he laughed, puffing on a cigarette, “So I hid it away with the rest of my emergency stuff.”

“Why do you have ‘emergency stuff’?” Bruce inquired, mesmerized by the other boy’s skill with the knife.

“Just in case,” Jay answered vaguely, clearly enjoying the impressive air of mystery he was building around himself, “Do you see anything interesting happening?”

Bruce looked through the binoculars again, returning them to the two figures he’d been watching, “I feel like something’s going on over there on the corner… but I’m not sure what.”

Jay grabbed one side of the binoculars, pressing his face against Bruce’s to push him out of the way, and peered through. After a moment, he said, “Oh, she’s buying drugs. Yeesh, probably crack by the look of her. See that guy there? The one in the long coat? Watch him.”

He let Bruce look back through the lens, observing the man and the haggard woman he was interacting with. “She’s handing him something. It’s… yeah, it’s money. She dropped it.”

Jay gave a snort of laughter, digging through his bag for something.

“Now he’s… shaking her hand and… walking away?” Bruce lowered the binoculars in confusion, “Where were the drugs?”

Jay pulled out a silver flask, giving a smirk, “The _handshake_.”

“Oh… _Oh_ ,” Bruce’s brow furrowed and he looked back at Jay in wonder, “How do you _know_ that?”

“How do you _not?_ ” Jay held the cigarette in one hand and took a swig out of the flask with the other, “You’re so sheltered, Bruce.”

Bruce scowled and Jay added, “No, it’s cute, really.”

That made things worse and Bruce gave him a one-handed shove that nearly sent the smaller boy toppling over himself as he yelped, “Hey, woah! I’m gonna spill!”

Once he’d recovered, his ego sufficiently ruffled, Bruce asked, “Can I have some of that actually? I’m out of water.”

Jay paused, giving a cunning smile and saying, “Why, of _course_ , Brucie, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal. Drink up.”

Bruce eyed him suspiciously, but took the flask. He was not at all prepared for the strong flavor that hit his tongue when he unwittingly drank whatever was inside it. Gagging, he barely managed to avoid spitting it out as Jay cackled with laughter. Bruce forced the contents down, determined to show he could handle it, and then demanding, “What _was_ that?”

“Whiskey,” Jay explained, taking the flask back, “Damn, you did good! I didn’t think you’d actually swallow.”

The liquor left a trail of heat in its wake as it sank into his belly and warmed him all the way to his toes. Bruce squirmed, entirely unaccustomed to the feeling and finding it uncomfortable at first. But when he looked at Jay, he watched the other boy drink it like water. Then he smiled and offered it to him once more.

“Just take it easy,” Jay said, “It’ll creep up on you.”

It felt good to earn Jay’s respect, so Bruce took another small sip, doing his best not to make a face at the flavor, “I guess Mom said you couldn’t have this either?”

“Hehe,” Jay shrugged, “What she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her, right?”

The night continued in that fashion, Jay shedding light on the behaviorisms of the people below and the places and methods they used to commit crime. Bruce couldn’t help but notice how this knowledge was second nature to Jay. He spoke about things like drugs and prostitution and gangs as if _everyone_ knew about them, as if they were _normal_ , and Bruce realized just how different his own life and experiences were from people like Jay. He recalled his mother talking to him about this dichotomy not long before her death, though he couldn’t remember what he’d said that had spurned the conversation. Her voice was so clear in his mind.

“ _This,_ ” she’d said, gesturing to the grand hall of Wayne Manor, “This isn’t how most people live, baby, especially people that look like us. This isn’t how _I_ lived when I was your age. It’s important that you know that, Bruce, and that you understand. You can’t let all this blind you to the hard truths of the world and how we need to—”

She stopped herself. She took a breath and placed a hand on his cheek, smiling sadly, “Someday I’ll tell you everything, baby. When you’re older.”

“Hey,” a gentle voice coaxed him out of his memories, “Are you okay?”

Bruce blinked in surprise and noticed a wetness upon his face. Reaching up, he brushed away the tears that had fallen unbidden from his eyes and gave a sharp sniff. “Yeah,” he said gruffly, embarrassed, “I’m fine.”

To his credit, Jay knew not to call him on this lie and let him sit quietly, recovering from whatever pain he had been experiencing. After a long moment though, he leaned abruptly into Bruce’s field of vision, eyes crossed and cheeks puffed out in a ridiculous face that made him laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. And he was grateful.

**3**

By the time the boys headed back to the Freak Show, it was very late and although Gotham never truly slept, it was at least drowsy. After all the rain, the streets shone bright with multi-colored reflections of lights from street lamps, traffic signals, and illuminated store fronts. Bruce breathed deeply through his nose, enjoying the scent of petrichor in the air. He gave a great yawn and Jay rubbed his eyes, though he’d kept insisting all night that he wasn’t tired.

“We’ll have to come back tomorrow,” he said sleepily, “It’ll probably take a couple days to find our perp.”

“Yeah,” Bruce readily agreed, “There’s so many people in the city. It would be crazy if we found him in just one night.”

They stopped at a red light as a taxi drove by and Jay wrapped his arms around Bruce’s shoulders, leaning on him as much as he could while standing on the back pegs and admitting, “Okay. Maybe I’m a _little_ tired.”

“After all the biking you’ve been doing, I can only _imagine_ ,” Bruce crooned sarcastically and Jay sniggered into his shoulder.

“ _Stop! Let go!_ ”

The boys looked up in surprise as a shout echoed about the nearly deserted intersection. Up ahead, a young woman was struggling with a hooded figure who was attempting to rip a purse from her clutching hands. Unmoving, they watched as she continued to fight with him. A car nearby slowed, but didn’t stop.

“ _Someone—fucking—help!_ ” the woman finally bellowed as the thief managed to tear the purse from her and bolted down the street.

“Hold on, Jay.”

“Wha—Woah!” Jay’s hands gripped Bruce’s shoulders painfully as the bike shot off in the direction of the thief.

Bruce swerved around a corner and nearly rode into a man with a briefcase who just barely jumped out of the way in time. The briefcase however, knocked into the handlebars, bursting open and scattering papers all over. The boys wobbled dangerously on the bike, but Bruce was able to get it back under control before turning right into the street and cutting off a car that beeped angrily at him.

“There he is!” Jay pointed out the man as he attempted to duck into a store, only to find it locked.

He looked over his shoulder at the boys chasing him and Bruce could see the terror in his eyes. How they must have looked to him, two ghastly figures in terrifying masks running him down at night. Bruce felt Jay pull one of the bats out of his bag and wave it above his head, letting out a well-practiced and unnerving cackle.

“Run, run, run, as fast as you can!” He cried out in a sing-song voice, altering his tone in subtle ways to make it creepier.

The thief’s eyes widened and he knocked over a garbage can as he fled, hoping to waylay them, but Bruce maneuvered sharply around it. Sweat was now dripping down the side of his face and he could feel his heart racing, but the adrenaline rush kept him strong. All that mattered to him in that moment was retrieving that purse.

“Get low,” Bruce commanded, “we need more speed!”

Jay immediately obeyed, crouching over Bruce, who pressed himself as low to the handlebars as possible as the looming structure of Gotham Stadium came ever closer. They were gaining on him, plowing right through another intersection. Two people in the car waiting at the red light let out billowing clouds of skunky smoke as they rolled down their windows to lean out and watch the thief and the boys zoom past into the stadium parking lot.

“I’m gonna get us up beside him,” Bruce said, pumping the pedals harder than ever.

And as they did, finally riding side by side with the thief, Jay brandished the metal bat and knocked it right into the back of the man’s knees, sending him sprawling painfully across the concrete. The purse flew from his hands, contents scattering everywhere, as Bruce hit the brakes and came to a halt. He moved to hop off of the bike, but Jay stopped him.

“Wait,” he hissed in Bruce’s ear.

The thief got slowly to his feet, groaning in pain as his bearings returned. He wobbled and staggered forward, holding his head. Then, hesitantly, he looked up, eyes locating the boys on the bike.

“Wait for it,” Jay whispered, “Wait for it…”

The man seemed paralyzed for a long moment. Then he took a single step back.

“Charge at him. _Now_.”

Bruce did so as Jay raised the bat and let out that terrible cackle once more. The man screamed in fear and turned tail, ditching the purse altogether to run for his life. Bruce put the brakes back on rather quickly, but the man didn’t look back and had soon disappeared from their line of sight, leaving the boys standing there in the dark, silent parking lot.

They looked at one another, almost unable to believe that they had succeeded, and then simultaneously burst into victorious laughter.

“Holy shit!” Jay said, reaching up to meet Bruce’s high-five, “That was amazing!”

“I can’t believe I just did that,” Bruce gasped, grinning ear to ear as Jay slapped his back in congratulations.

“You were a monster on that bike!”

“Good thinking with the bat!”

For a moment, they gushed about their victory, allowing themselves to float adrift in the dopamine high of success. But eventually, an unseen complication arose. As they gathered up the woman’s scattered effects and returned them to the purse, they realized the extreme unlikelihood that she had remained waiting for them at the intersection she’d been robbed at. Bruce rummaged around until he’d located her wallet.

“1134 Crescent Street, Apt 12,” he read off of her ID, “Crescent Street isn’t far from here. We should bring it back to her.”

Jay pulled a thick wad of bills clipped together out of the wallet and his eyes lit up, “Wow. What do you think, Bruce? Don’t we deserve a _reward_ for our good deed?”

Bruce rolled his eyes and plucked the money from his hands, “That’s stealing, Jay. You’re better than that.”

“I’m really not, if you recall.”

“You just helped me _stop_ a thief,” Bruce insisted, “Come on. What would Mom think?”

Jay groaned, “Low blow. Fine. Let’s go be the _‘good guys’,_ ugh.”

Bruce smiled and threw an arm around his shoulders, “You’ll learn to like it, I promise.”


	6. Brutality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Among the dissention and unrest of his officers, Commissioner Gordon attempts to rekindle trust with the Dark Knight; Batman finally comes face to face with the real killer after catching him red handed, but complications arise._
> 
> ==========
> 
> Excerpt:
> 
> "He moved carefully into the hallway; his eyes peeled for movement. He passed a bathroom and a second bedroom, briefly peering into both as he did and finding them empty, before coming to a narrow staircase. The sound of a television playing obscenely loud was echoing throughout the apartment and as he turned to look down the stairs, he laid eyes on his target."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDIT - 11/15/2020:  
> Added a 4th scene to the end of the chapter.
> 
> From the Soundtrack:  
>   
> Scene 2: Who Will You Turn To?  
> "Survival Pt. 1" by Ceschi  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TAweNAaJdk8&list=PLmn0lxfD9DrkhahMg6AWe1ETzJMWFd50Y&index=5)

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

PunkyBlooze

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Dumpster-Fire-Colored-Joker-Concept-Art-858235815) **

_All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze._

_This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen._

_For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

**Find My Art (18+ ONLY):**  
DeviantArt: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze)  
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* * *

###  **Chapter 3: Brutality**

* * *

**1**

Officer David Holing was bent over the hood of a police car in the parking lot of the GCPD with a heat gun, grumpily taking it to the custom vinyl bat decal that was stuck there. The cigarette in his mouth steadily burned away, ashes falling onto the hood as he worked. His partner, officer Bennett Clark, stood nearby, scrolling through his cellphone.

“This guy says it’s easier with an eraser wheel,” Clark said, watching a tutorial video off YouTube, “Gotta get it from a body shop though.”

“Well I don’t have an eraser wheel,” Holing growled around his cigarette, “I’ve got the fuckin’ heat gun.”

Clark shrugged, putting the phone in his pocket and sipping his coffee, “Shouldn’t have put the thing on there in the first place.”

“Oh,” Holing snapped sarcastically, looking at him, “Like you and everybody else didn’t think it was a great idea when I did? How was I supposed to know he’d go looney and turn on us?”

Clark raised his hands defensively, “Okay, okay, calm down.”

“Still having a hard time, Dave?” Another officer called as she approached them and eyed the hood of the car.

“Hey, Bishop,” Clark greeted her, but Holing simply glowered and continued his work, “He’s a little sensitive about it.”

Bishop nodded with understanding, taking no offense. For a long moment, the three of them sat in silence until she finally asked, “So you guys really think he’s lost it? The Batman?”

“He’s definitely knocking off Falcone’s guys,” Clark answered, “Not that I really care that those scumbags are dead. Good riddance. But I don’t think it’s because he’s gone nuts.”

Bishop made a face and peered at him, “What do you mean? Why else would he break his only rule?”

“ _I_ think,” Clark explained with an air of importance, “that he’s trying to bring about the collapse of the city.”

Holing rolled his eyes, “Oh, not with that conspiracy theory crap again. Why can’t you accept that he’s just a psychopath?”

“But look at what he’s been doing! All these protests started because of that video of Mathews on YouTube and—”

“Fuck that video,” Holing interrupted, “It’s all fucked up and dark and you can’t even really see what’s going on. Besides, that guy had a gun.”

“But he was already disarmed and handcuffed,” Bishop pushed back, “You’ve got to admit that looked really bad. Mathews always goes too hard and it finally bit him in the ass. He killed that guy. It was excessive—”

“The _point_ ,” Clark continued aggressively before Holing could snap back, “is that right after that video blew up, everybody was flipping out and Batman was getting shit on right beside us. They _hated_ him.”

Bishop raised an inquisitive eyebrow, “And?”

“And right after that he started stringing _us_ up in the streets like _we_ were the criminals. Bit coincidental, don’t you think? He didn’t mind us doing the dirty work before, but now that all these protesters don’t like us, he’s acting like he’s on their side.”

“Traitor,” snorted Holing, “That’s why he’s not one of us. We look out for our own, no matter what.”

Bishop folded her arms, “To be honest, I don’t think the Bat ever really liked us. Gordon’s the only one he ever talks to, even before he was commissioner. And it’s not as if he wasn’t doing shit like that _before_ the video.”

Holing slid off the hood of the car, “No, before the video he was after _dirty_ cops, the ones working for the gangs. Now he’s after _all_ of us.”

Clark shrugged, “Either way, this guy has _always_ thought he was better than us, despite the fact that he’s out there breaking every law known to man.”

“Yeah and you wanna talk about ‘excessive’?” Holing added heatedly to Bishop, “Have you seen what he did to Bollock? He’s going to be on leave for weeks!”

“Well how does that tie into him killing off Falcone’s men?” Bishop demanded in frustration, “If anything, I think that makes it even _more_ unlikely that Batman is the killer. If he’s siding with the protesters about police brutality, why would he start killing people? That makes no sense.”

“Because when he kills them, it makes it look like _we_ did it and tried to frame him,” Clark explained, “Which will amp the protests and fuel the fire—which it _has_ —and before you know it, it’s all-out war, anarchy in the streets, the city as we know it falls apart, and who’s left to rule over the masses? Batman!”

“Wow, Clark,” Bishop rolled her eyes, “You don’t think that’s kind of a stretch?”

“Told you it was conspiracy theory crap,” Holing commented, “I’m telling you, he’s just crazy. He was crazy then and he’s crazy now and we were just the idiots that trusted him.”

The three of them stood there, shivering in the cold and looking at the half-removed bat decal on Holing’s car. It wasn’t lost on them either, that the same symbol hung over their heads in the sky, projected by the spotlight atop the GCPD.

“You know,” Bishop said finally, “It’d be easier if you used an eraser wheel.”

**2**

From his position on the roof Commissioner Gordon looked down upon the three officers as they headed back into the building. His eyes lingered on the car and the mutilated decal, recalling a time when they were all full of hopeful support of the Batman. He took a wrinkled old pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, but resisted the urge and returned it, instead unwrapping a piece of gum.

“Finally kicking the habit, Gordon?”

He used to jump when this happened, but by now he was so used to how Batman seemed to appear out of nowhere, that he didn’t even flinch.

“Yeah, well… my lungs aren’t looking so hot these days,” he admitted with a sigh, “And my daughter hates cigarettes. Won’t let me smoke in the house.”

There was a long pause. Then Gordon turned to face him, saying, “They’re finally getting rid of the bat symbols on the cars.”

“Good. They were never appropriate,” Batman responded, “What do you need, Gordon?”

“To talk,” the older man said, lowering himself into the fold out chair he often brought up to the roof while waiting for the Bat.

He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, “Things have… gotten really bad, haven’t they?”

He looked old, terribly old, and worn just then, like a man trapped and too exhausted to continue trying to break free. He’d lost quite a bit of weight over the passed year and his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. “I want us to be able to trust one another like we once did.”

“It’s not an option anymore,” Batman growled, “Not after all I’ve seen. Too long I’ve waited, Gordon. I hoped that you could make a difference, but hope isn’t enough anymore. The GCPD holds a bigger body count than all the gangs in this city and twice as many thugs ready to brutalize the citizens it claims to protect.”

“And what about you?” Gordon demanded, “You think you can just point the finger at us and ignore the fact that you’re the same? You may not commit murder, but don’t you talk to me about brutality.”

The two men glared at each other, animosity sparking amongst the rolling clouds of tension. But where once, neither would back down, the fight suddenly went out of Gordon. He sighed heavily and slumped in his chair, a tired old man once more.

“I’m sorry,” he said and his tone was genuine, “I know you’re not the same… and I know that you’re right.”

“Despite what you may think of me, I _know_ there are terrible problems within the GCPD. I know it’s cultural and systemic and… and I accept now that its roots are deeper than one man can ever hope to dismantle. No matter how good his intentions.”

“What are you saying, Gordon?”

“There’s been a lot of dissent among my officers,” he explained slowly, “Some are even calling for my resignation. I’m sorely tempted to give it to them…”

“But do you know why I hold on? Why I keep trying, beyond hope, to change things?” He looked up at Batman, fire in his eyes, “Because I know that whomever comes to replace me will not. I know that the next Commissioner will be someone bought and paid for by the establishment to enforce the establishment. And what can I do? I _can’t_ change the culture and I _can’t_ change the system, I tried! I tried…”

His voice was full of emotion, straining to connect with the man before him, to make him understand. “Most days it feels like… like the best I can do is just hold back the monster as long as I can, but it’s a battle I _will_ lose. It’s only a matter of time.”

“We knew it wouldn’t be easy,” Batman said quietly.

Gordon sniffed sharply and looked up at the moon, hanging silently above, “My wife’s cancer is progressing. They say she won’t make it another year.”

A painful silence followed. Batman knew about the cancer, but it was a topic Gordon usually kept under wraps and he knew better than to pry. She’d gone into remission a few times, but it always came back and with a vengeance.

“You knew you couldn’t take on the entire city alone. That’s why you sought me out, back then,” Gordon recalled, offering a melancholic smile, “And when it defeats me, what then?”

“Who will you turn to when I’m gone, Batman?”

**3**

Benjamin Phillips lived in an apartment complex in a neighborhood dubbed the Narrows. Situated on an island in the Gotham River between Midtown and Downtown, it was the poorest, most derelict neighborhood in the city and an association with Falcone had given Phillips great power there. He was in charge of “distribution of goods”, a very corporate way to say that he was a drug dealer. But these days, it was known that he had stockpiled supplies and holed himself up tightly in his apartment for fear of the Batman.

The object of his terror was perched atop one of the many tall and clustered rooftops that gave the Narrows the network of claustrophobic allies and pathways it was so named for. The special lenses built into the eyes of his cowl allowed him to zoom his sight right up to Phillips’ front door. But it had been shut for days now and all the windows covered by thick curtains. No activity could be seen from the outside. Only once did a few of Falcone’s men come to visit him. After that, there was no one.

“Anything yet?” Frida asked over the communications device in his cowl.

“No,” he sighed, “Not yet.”

“Remind me, why are you so convinced that the perp will target Phillips first?”

“Well,” Batman pondered, “It’s a gamble, but Phillips is the easier target. I know that Falcone sent Hall to one of his new warehouses, though I’m not yet sure of its exact location. He’s most likely got a shipment coming in soon and wants it protected. That means they’ll be heavily armed and ready for a fight. Meanwhile, he’s left Phillips wide open.”

“Sounds like a trap.”

“It is,” agreed Batman, “and an obvious one. But something tells me that will only entice our killer. They’re fond of fear tactics. They’ll want to put as much doubt into the remaining men as possible before taking on a well-armed force. What better way to do that than showing that even when Falcone tries to set them up, they can outwit him?”

“It does fit their pattern of behavior,” Frida agreed, “Be careful not to get caught in the crosshairs.”

The next hour of surveillance passed by slowly. Batman had set up three small cameras around the periphery of the building and switched between the feeds on the small computer screen built into the armor of his right bracer. All was quiet until half way through the second hour, a shadow darted passed one of the cameras. He zeroed in on the movement with the zooming lens of his cowl. A small figure dressed in all black was climbing the fire escape, moving swiftly.

When he tried to catch a glimpse of the figure’s face however, he found it obscured by a cheap, plastic replica of his own cowl. These masks had become quite a commodity among Gotham citizens, especially since the civil unrest had begun and he’d proven that he was on the side of the oppressed. They were a common sight at protests. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he waited, wanting to make sure he had the right target. He didn’t need to wait long however. The figure stopped at Phillips’ back door and began picking the lock.

Stepping to the edge of the roof, Batman leapt off of the building. The specially engineered material of his cape stiffened as he pulled it out to either side and caught the wind, allowing him to glide where he needed to go. But the killer was extremely efficient and by the time Batman landed on the fire escape, he was already inside the apartment. Batman slipped in quietly, switching his cowl to night vision mode in the darkness.

Because of his status as one of Falcone’s lieutenants, even a lowly one, Phillips was able to secure himself what was likely the largest apartment in the Narrows. Despite how run down and ill-kempt it was, the space and layout itself was surprisingly generous for a neighborhood where most people were crammed into boxes and stacked endlessly atop one another. Batman found himself on the first floor. The backdoor had led right into the master bedroom, which was empty.

He moved carefully into the hallway; his eyes peeled for movement. He passed a bathroom and a second bedroom, briefly peering into both as he did and finding them empty, before coming to a narrow staircase. The sound of a television playing obscenely loud was echoing throughout the apartment and as he turned to look down the stairs, he laid eyes on his target.

Almost simultaneously, the killer glanced over his shoulder and watched as the Batman bore down upon him. He thrashed violently as he was seized and thrown up against a wall. But he was faster than anticipated and before Batman even saw it, a butterfly knife scraped across the armor of his shoulder, aiming for the weak spot where the plates separated and just barely missing. He stepped back to avoid another blow, but this gave the killer enough room to wriggle free and he darted down the stairs.

Batman dove after him, sending them both crashing loudly to the second floor, the entire apartment shaking in their wake. They struggled again on the ground and despite his size and strength, Batman found it quite difficult to keep ahold of the smaller man, who continuously stabbed at him with the knife, managing to cut him twice in his armor’s weak spots. But once he caught hold of the man’s wrist, he pinned it to the ground, rendering his weapon useless. And with a knee pressed firmly atop his chest, he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Gotcha,” he growled, catching his breath, “You’re going away for a _long_ time, you—”

He paused. The killer was waving his free hand and shaking his head: _Stop._ Then he held a hand to his ear, cocking his head: _Listen._ Batman frowned. All he could hear was the sound of the blaring television. And then it hit him. Where was Phillips? Surely, he’d just heard the two grown men barreling through his house. Pausing for a moment, Batman peered down at the killer, thinking. First, he confiscated the knife and slipped it into one of the pouches on his belt. Then, from another pocket, he pulled pair of zip-tie handcuffs that he used to bind the killer’s hands before hauling him to his feet.

“Come,” Batman commanded, gripping his upper arm to pull him along.

Slowly, they approached the entrance to the living room. The news was playing at max volume and a reporter was saying, “—footage of a man driving a car right into a crowd of protesters. Five people were injured, one quite seriously. Please be aware, the footage is disturbing.”

Before he stepped in, the killer pulled back, stopping him. He looked back and the smaller man pointed to the ground. Batman peered closer and noticed, ever so slightly, light reflecting off of the thin wire that had been strung across the entryway. Surprised that he’d missed this detail, he carefully stepped over it, followed by his captive.

The living room was disgusting. Scattered clothing, garbage, personal effects, and the like littered the ground. One of the walls was entirely covered in what looked like years of scribblings and graffiti and all of the furniture was stained or broken or ripped, the side tables coated in dust from overflowing ashtrays or cluttered with lopsided towers of dirty dishes. Not but a few feet from the television, an armchair was silhouetted by its glow, facing away from them.

As Batman approached, he knew what he would find on the other side before he even saw the body. Phillips’ lay in the chair, his corpse cold and stiff and his dead eyes staring endlessly at the television. The eyes of his cowl lit up and he began to take photos of the crime scene for later study. On the news, crowds of protesters chanted back and forth, “No justice; No peace! No justice; No peace! No justi—”

Batman’s eyes snapped to the killer whose finger was still on the power button of the television after having turned it off. At the intensity of Batman’s glower, he raised his hands slowly in surrender. And it was at that moment that they both noticed a soft, rhythmic beeping that was gradually getting faster.

Batman seized the smaller man and leapt through the nearest window with a crash just as the bomb exploded. The force of it sent the both of them smashing into the brick wall of the building opposite and as they fell, Batman scrambled for his grappling gun. Pointing it at the edge of the nearest roof, he pulled the trigger and felt their descent slow as it caught on and began reeling them up. But right at that key moment, when the descent was slowest just before ascension, the killer acted.

Batman could only hold onto him with one arm like this and he twisted, cat-like out of his grip, just in time. He landed on the ground with a sloppy roll and then took off into the twisting maze of alleyways as Batman was catapulted helplessly upwards. As soon as he landed on the roof, he took up the chase in the direction the killer had fled, but already the burning frustration of defeat was upon him. The Narrows was by far the easiest place in Gotham to disappear and try as he may to find him again, it was as though the man had vanished into thin air.

**4**

The light of the morning sun was torturesome as Bruce exited his car, squinting irritably up at it, and he made haste for the apartment building, eager for the dark solitude of his own space. He’d returned to the base beneath Mayne Manor as the sky began to brighten and Frida had helped him clean his wounds. Mercifully, none of the cuts required stitches and the explosion had done only cosmetic damage to his armor, though the sliced fabric would need sewing. She assured him that she would take care of it and insisted he go home, though he felt restless as ever. His body’s pressing demands for sleep in the wake of such strenuous exertion were silenced beneath the endless manic noise of his mind.

He kept running the events of the night over and over in his head and as he did, certain details pulled themselves to the forefront of his thoughts. The killer’s mannerisms were setting off alarms that he couldn’t quite identify: his swift skill with the butterfly knife, the way he’d mimed his thoughts rather than speak them, how he’d frozen like a guilty child after turning off the tv. These behaviorisms seemed almost familiar, but Bruce knew he’d never encountered an opponent quite like him before.

Jogging up the stairs, he tried for what felt like the hundredth time to clear his thoughts. He already knew that it would take a great amount of effort to achieve silence and even then, he would only enjoy it for a precious few minutes before his thoughts began to churn once more. He passed two people on their way downstairs that were talking excitedly about where they wanted to get breakfast.

“Good morning,” they said politely as they passed him, each positively glowing with happiness.

He gave a small nod in response and listened to their playful banter and giggles until they had faded away. He was unprepared for the sharp pang of loneliness that hit him then. Standing before his front door, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to will it away along with everything else. But try as he might, it simply grew and he ached both inside and out.

When he finally opened the door however, he found a surprising sight upon the floor: a pair of familiar steel-toed boots lay discarded in a heap in the hall. They were caked with mud, which had dried and flaked all about them upon the shabby tile flooring and for some reason that made him smile as he kicked off his own shoes.

“Jay?” he called, pulling his coat off and hanging it on one of the hooks beside the bathroom door.

There was no response, but venturing further into the open space of the studio apartment, he spotted him. Jay was curled up in his bed, his hair still wet from showering, blankets and pillows strewn all around him in a messy, comfortable nest. He could hear the sound of something playing on the television and when he approached, he smiled as he saw the familiar silent film, one of the few he’d brought from his father’s collection. Turning it off, he returned the DVD to the worn old case sitting on the shelf.

He changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, pulling the butterfly knife he’d taken from the killer out of his pocket and examining it in the dim light. He glanced between it and Jay before setting it down on the bedside table and saying absently, “Guess you had a busy night too.”

“Mmm, you have no idea,” Bruce was surprised when he actually answered, smirking a little, though his eyes remained shut.

“Oh good,” Bruce responded, “Now I don’t have to feel bad about waking you up. Move it. I said you could sleep on the couch if you needed a place to crash, not the bed. My turn.”

“Oh, you can fuck right off,” yawned Jay, burrowing deeper in the pillowy blankets, “This is _my_ bed now.”

“You do realize you’re like the size of a chihuahua and I could easily bench press two of you, right?”

“Aw, come on,” he begged sleepily, “I haven’t slept in a real bed in like… I dunno, a _really_ long time.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and groaned, “Oh my god, fine. Then move over.”

Despite this command, Bruce had to do a lot of pushing and shoving to move his sniggering guest from the warm center of the bed. Then he had to wrestle one of the blankets from the cocoon Jay had wrapped himself in before he was able to settle in, laying back to back with him.

“Good night, Bruce,” Jay bid him pleasantly, as if this were all very normal.

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose before saying shortly, “Good night, Jay.”

But despite his annoyance, he was glad Jay was there and when he closed his eyes, he didn’t even notice how quiet it was in his mind or how relaxed his body had become. Sleep took him swifter and sounder than it had in months; the deep dreamless sleep of contentment.

On the bedside table, laying in a small pool of golden light peeking through the blackout curtains, the butterfly knife glimmered in the darkness.


	7. Reminiscence: Playing Pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Flashback: Frida attempts to talk to Bruce about school and how much time he spends alone, but he pushes her away, not wanting her to worry. When he returns to the Freak Show, he experiences the many unique performances and thrills it has to offer as he searches for Jay on the first floor._
> 
> ==========
> 
> Excerpt: 
> 
> "When Bruce entered, he could feel the temperature rise. It was as though he’d walked into a post-apocalyptic aquarium, overtaken by swamp-like vegetation. Realistic props of half-eaten animals and guts were littered about the space, though a clear walkway led to the main attraction. A massive cylindrical tank of green water stood in its center, it’s murky depths full of thick seaweed that nearly reached the top. He stepped closer, trying to see what lie within the watery forest, until his face was inches from the glass."

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

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* * *

###  **Reminiscence: Playing Pretend**

**1**

Young Bruce Wayne stood before a tall set of shelves built into the wall behind them. On every level, meticulously categorized and alphabetized and ranging in format from VHS to DVD, was his father’s expansive collection of movies. They were displayed here, in the smaller, cozier living room of the west wing, for family nights. Often Bruce found himself here when he was taken by the melancholic pangs of desire to relive those times.

He recalled how he used to spend ages looking through the collection, his father pointing out favorites to him and telling him all about the artistry of film-making and the history behind each story. It had been one of he and his father’s favorite past times to read together from the Manor’s equally expansive library and compare the books to their movie counterparts.

Thumbing through the many titles, he eventually found the one he was looking for. He pulled it from the shelf, peering at the strange artwork on the cover: a frightening face with a grotesque grin looked down upon the figures of two lovers and in the background, two hanging men swung from a pair of gallows.

Last night, while biking to Crescent Street to return the stolen purse, Bruce had asked Jay what his favorite movie was.

“You’ve probably never heard of it,” Jay had responded pompously, “Mom and I watch a lot of old stuff.”

“Is it some cheesy slasher?” snorted Bruce.

“Hey!” Jay protested, “I love cheesy slashers. But no, it’s called The Man Who Laughs. It’s a black-and-white silent film.”

Bruce’s brow had furrowed, “That actually sounds familiar.”

Jay hadn’t believed him, so he plucked the disc from the case and put it into the DVD player. And for a time, he was able to thoroughly disassociate from the world around himself. For about two hours, nothing existed but that movie and he could almost imagine his parents sitting there with him—his father on the opposite end of the couch and his mother on the recliner.

His father wouldn’t be able to resist, conspiring with Bruce in whispered voices about what they thought was going to happen or discussing how difficult certain scenes must have been to film. His mother would sigh in annoyance at them for talking through the movie, like they always did.

“I’m not going to rewind it if you miss something important,” she’d warn them, but she always would.

The silence around him now was deafening and it took everything in him to just ignore it. Focus, he told himself. He focused on the anguish of orphaned Gwynplaine, “The Laughing Man”, as he toured with a troupe of performing clowns. He focused on the huge crowds gathering to point and laugh at the surgical smile cruelly affixed to his sorrowful face. He focused on the devotion of Dea, who loved the poor man more than life itself.

“Bruce?”

He jumped at the sound of Frida’s voice, pulled jarringly from his immersion. “Yes?” he asked with a well-practiced calmness that betrayed none of his true emotions.

Frida stepped into the room, “Sorry, am I interrupting your movie?”

Two hours had passed too quickly. Even as she asked, the credits began to roll and Bruce shook his head, “No, it just ended.”

“Oh, good. Good,” she paused awkwardly, “I, ah, I just wanted to check on you. Mrs. Han said you were having a hard time with your lessons this morning.”

Bruce gave a small laugh, though it didn’t reach his eyes, “I was just tired. I was up a little too late last night, playing a game. It won’t happen again.”

He hated how she always saw through his façade, the lines of worry on her face ever deepening. But she never called him out, not directly, and he was grateful.

“Bruce,” she said, her soft tone uncharacteristic of her usual militant personality, “are you sure you don’t want to go back to school this year? It’s eighth grade after all. You never know where all of your classmates will be going to high school. It could be the last year you have with some of them.”

Bruce just smiled, “If it’s alright with you, I’d prefer to continue homeschooling for now. I feel like I can really focus in a one-on-one environment, you know? And I want to make sure I do better than last year.”

Frida nodded slowly, “Okay. I’m just…concerned. You spend an awful lot of time alone, Bruce. You never see your friends anymore.”

“Oh, I wasn’t really _that_ close with anyone at school,” he said nonchalantly, “They were all so immature anyway. I’m sure I’ll meet new friends in high school.”

Frida hesitated, then tried to return his smile, “Well… Alejandro was thinking of cooking empanadas for dinner tonight and you enjoyed helping him make them so much last time, he extended the invitation for you to join him if you’d like.”

“Empanadas sounds great, that’s really thoughtful of him, but I was actually going to play a bit more of my game, if that’s alright.”

“Of course, Bruce. I’ll let him know.”

When she left, he felt himself deflate, exhausted. It was a terrible chore to keep up the constant act of being fine, to stitch a smile he never felt to his face and laugh when he wanted to cry. But he couldn’t stand everyone constantly pitying him. The staff all spoke so carefully to him, with exaggerated kindness and warmth, and they whispered in the halls about the tragedy of it. All year, everyone behaved as if he were some fragile thing and all it did was remind him that he was different now. Scarred. He just wanted them to stop worrying, so he could pretend that everything was going to be okay. If he could just pretend, he could get by. And that would be enough.

**2**

When Bruce returned to the Freak Show, he was relieved that Giovanni wasn’t standing at the gate. George was still there, chewing noisily on a piece of gum and looking surly as he eyed the boy approaching. Bruce hopped off of his bike, walking it the last few feet, and asked awkwardly, “Hey, um, do you know where Jay is?”

“Innit yer bedtime, kid?”

The giant of a man blew a bubble that gave a satisfying pop before tonguing the gum back into his mouth. Then he indicated with a nod of his head to the warehouse, “He’s inside. Probably making a mess of something.”

“Oh,” Bruce said, unsure how to respond, “Well, could I get in? I’m not here for the haunted house, I just need to get him so we can—”

“Nah,” George interrupted him, “You wanna git in? You gotta pay, like everyone else.”

Bruce was taken aback by his hostile behavior, but started rustling through his pockets and asking, “O-Okay. How much?”

“Twenty-eight for general admission,” said George matter-of-factly, “But it’ll be thirty-five for you.”

Bruce stopped, “What? Why?”

“No gremlins under eighteen allowed without a parent or guardian,” he smirked nastily, “So’s the way I see it, I’m doin’ you a favor. And favors ain’t free.”

Not accustomed to extortion from grown adults, Bruce frowned as he pulled out forty of the fifty dollars he’d brought in case of emergencies and handed it over.

George smiled as he made change and strapped a green paper bracelet to Bruce’s wrist, “Pleasure doin’ business with ya.”

Inside the warehouse, it was just as chaotic as the night before and Bruce wove his way through the crowd, calling Jay’s name. He had no idea where to look however and after about ten minutes of this and several adults stopping to ask if he needed help, he approached one of the many tents set up across the floor instead. It was regal looking, striped in black and gold, but all along its edges, it appeared singed and smoke was seeping out from beneath it. A sign outside read, “The Burning Man”.

He heard gasps from inside and when he entered, his eyes widened in awe. Standing behind a plexiglass barrier in the dim light, a man dressed in nothing but a colorful sash about his waist was engulfed in flame and every inch of his dark skin was twisted by scars from severe burns. He danced in a slow, hypnotic fashion to the music of the sitar and drums that played inside the tent and the golden bangles about his ankles and the many tiny coins attached to his sash added to the sound. Cupping his hands together and breathing the smoke that gathered inside, he blew a stream of magnificent smoke rings that made the group of spectators clap and cheer. His eyes met Bruce’s for just a moment, bright golden eyes that held his own like a serpent, and then released him.

Bruce ducked out of the tent, but he was now filled with wonder at what lie in store within the rest of them. Another stood nearby, this one larger and striped in green and blue, but its fabric was waterlogged and ripped as though by a set of great claws. Actual seaweed clung to it’s trappings and the smell within was intensely unpleasant.

When Bruce entered, he could feel the temperature rise. It was as though he’d walked into a post-apocalyptic aquarium, overtaken by swamp-like vegetation. Realistic props of half-eaten animals and guts were littered about the space, though a clear walkway led to the main attraction. A massive cylindrical tank of green water stood in its center, it’s murky depths full of thick seaweed that nearly reached the top. He stepped closer, trying to see what lie within the watery forest, until his face was inches from the glass.

She appeared out of nowhere, slamming her entire body into the wall of the tank with a loud _bang_ that echoed through the tent and sent Bruce staggering back with a cry of terror. He looked up from his place on the floor, eyes wide with fear, at the terrible form writhing in the glass. She was by far the biggest woman he’d ever laid eyes on, bigger even than George, with a body wrought of iron chords of muscle. Her armor-like skin was a rocky landscape of obsidian with many trails of protrusions across her arms and legs and back. Deadly claws sprouted from her thick webbed fingers, but by far the most frightening part of her was her face.

Her mouth was so wide that the corners of her lips nearly reached her beady eyes and even as Bruce watched, she opened that massive, horrifying maw and sank rows of yellowed teeth into the leg of some unfortunate animal. The vertical slits of her moss green eyes watched Bruce as she ripped at it, setting red clouds of blood adrift in the dark water. His heart hammering his chest, Bruce ran out of the tent as fast as his feet could take him, colliding with a group of patrons just outside, who laughed as they caught him.

“Woah there! You okay?”

“Must have been a good show in there huh?”

“Ooh, let’s go see!”

Bruce could barely manage the words to respond at first, but their excitement and kindness helped ease his panic. They grinned and chuckled and assured him that it was all just a show, just make up and great acting, and as he calmed down, he even managed to laugh a little with them. A few couldn’t even wait, heading eagerly into the tent after seeing his terror, and Bruce finally saw the mossy sign posted outside: The Killer Croc.

“Are you going to be okay, kiddo?” a woman with bushy red hair asked him, “Where are your parents?”

“Oh, they’re… they’re right over there,” Bruce lied, pointing vaguely in the direction of the concession stands, “I just thought I’d see this one on my own.”

She smiled at him, “You’re very brave! I could never. Hey, wait for me!”

They all disappeared into the green tent, which was soon full of screams and laughter, and Bruce ventured to a quieter part of the warehouse to gather himself. He sat down upon a bench beside an old fortune telling machine, taking deep breaths and still chuckling a little at himself.

“It looked so real,” he muttered aloud to himself, “I can’t believe I… Heh.”

“We do our best.”

Bruce jumped, eyes snapping to the fortune telling machine where the robot—or what he’d thought was a robot—was smiling at him. His jaw dropped and a smile split across his face, “Wow, I-I never would have guessed!”

The old woman laughed, “I’ve had a lot of practice sitting very, _very_ still.”

“Oh!” Bruce stood suddenly in excitement, “Do you know Jay? I’ve been looking for him.”

She whirled her hands about the crystal ball before her, saying in a mysterious voice, “Let’s see if we can find him, shall we? Step up, my boy, and I’ll tell you your future.”

Bruce did as she asked, fidgeting a little in anticipation, and she winked at him before closing her eyes. Soft music began to play from within the machine, the sound somewhere between eerie and soothing, and a fog built up around them in the violet light. The woman’s brow furrowed and her body swayed as her hands continued to move about the crystal ball, which glowed a misty blue.

“I see,” she began in a strange voice and when she opened her eyes again, they were blank and white, “I see… a bat. A great bat, swooping through Gotham and devouring the unjust.”

“But as it feeds upon others, so too does it feed upon itself. And I see a shadow… a terrible shadow that follows…”

A strong wind picked up suddenly within the machine, rattling the plexiglass case and blowing her bushy gray hair straight up. It was then that Bruce caught a glimpse of her forehead, where a third eye was open wide and staring straight at him. He might have jumped in surprise, if he wasn’t so transfixed, but the wind stopped just as soon as it came and her hair covered it once more.

“Beware,” she breathed.

Bruce didn’t speak at first, unsure of what to say while the woman blinked as though in pain and her eyes returned to normal. She then smiled once more, “You have a most fascinating life ahead of you, my child. But as for Jay, you may find him over there, in Zone B. He’s supposed to be helping Jaxon, but it’s not going so well.”

Bruce nodded, his eyes still boggling, “Th-Thank you. I… I’ll just go… find him.”

He set off in the direction she’d pointed and found himself in the same area that Jasper, the mask maker, resided with his stand. Bruce raised a hand and waved to him as he passed and the kindly man called to him, “Hello there! If you’re looking for Jay, he should be over there. Look for the leather shop.”

Bruce thanked him and turned a corner before seeing what he meant. There was a stand like Jasper’s except, instead of masks, the wares were costumes and accessories, many made of black leather. There were belts, harnesses, holsters, and pouches beside custom jackets and intricate boots. A mannequin stood behind the counter dressed in what looked like real, authentic pirate garb and hanging behind it was the thick, braided rope of a coiled whip. But before Bruce could gawk too much, he heard the sharp sound of a slap and an angry voice hissing in hushed tones.

“Don’t you ever, _ever_ embarrass me like that again!” Bruce followed the sound to a door behind the stand that was slightly ajar.

A sign on it read, “Employees Only” and when he peered inside, he could see it was a rec room, likely used by the staff on breaks. Standing in the room was a tall young man dressed in all black with a fur coat, leather pants, and crocodile skin boots. His dark hair was perfectly styled and his subtle make-up accented the ethereal beauty of his face. Bruce felt for a moment that he was looking at a character out of a fantasy story rather than a real human being standing before him.

The man was gripping Jay’s upper arm with one hand, nearly pulling him right off of his feet as he sneered at him, “You think just because you’re Mom’s little favorite, that means you’ve got the run of the place, do you? Well, we were here _first_ , you little _shit._ ”

Blood was trickling from Jay’s lip and when he laughed, it held a ring of cruelty Bruce had never heard before, “Piss off, Jaxon, it was just a _joke_. You take yourself _so_ _seriously_ , it’s pathe—”

But he didn’t get to finish that sentence as the back of Jaxon’s hand slammed into his face so hard that it sent him stumbling to the ground. Then he stomped a foot down on Jay’s chest, saying, “Mom’s not always going to be around to protect you. I suggest you learn to pick your enemies a bit more carefully.”

“Hey!”

Jaxon’s eyes flew to the doorway where Bruce now stood, fingers curled into tight fists with hatred in his eyes. “Get the fuck away from my friend.”


	8. The Iceberg Lounge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A robbery occurs down at the docks of the Financial District in Gotham; Bruce Wayne finds himself at the Iceberg Lounge for the Gotham Environmental Committee's Charity Gala; Oswald Cobblepot strikes a deadly wager with Falcone in exchange for his help._  
>  ==========
> 
> Excerpt:
> 
> "Oswald Cobblepot was a man of extravagant taste, to say the least. Within the crystalline opulence of the building’s interior, there were many awing sights to behold. That evening, the theme was “Spring” and it was the cherry blossom in particular that had captured Oswald’s imagination. Soft shades of pink, blue, and violet accented the white marble expanse of the main hall from colored lamps above and everywhere Bruce looked white and pink string lights were threaded through realistic vines of ivy and spring flowers. A great many circular tables were laid out across the floor and each was hollowed in the middle to make room for live cherry blossom trees bursting with pink petals above and lit below by little blue lights."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Fun Facts:** Oswald Cobblepot's appearance is heavily inspired by the actor Peter Dinklage  
> 
> 
> **==========**
> 
>  **From the Soundtrack:**  
>   
>  Scene 2: Crystalline Opulence  
> "It Might as Well be Spring" sung by Sarah Vaughan ft. Miles Davis  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g1VEifmf9Uw)
> 
> Scene 4: Bruce Leaves the Gala  
> "I'm Not a Good Person" by Pat the Bunny  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v4ATc1RGPyA)
> 
> **==========**
> 
> **Concept Art of Bruce Wayne:**
> 
>   
> 
> 
> **Concept Art of Oswald Cobblepot:**
> 
> [  
>    
>  ](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-Oswald-Cobblepot-863732865?ga_submit_new=10%3A1607664915&ga_type=edit&ga_changes=1)  
> 

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

PunkyBlooze

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Dumpster-Fire-Colored-Joker-Concept-Art-858235815) **

_All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze._

_This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen._

_For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

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* * *

### Chapter 4: The Iceberg Lounge

**1**

A ship was docked in the Financial District of Downtown Gotham and there was a twisted irony in the fact that the lights of the prison upon Black Gate Isle could be seen through the fog from its deck. The crew were bound and gagged down below as their illegal cargo was pirated by Oswald Cobblepot’s goons. Several of them worked on hauling a collection of specially marked crates out onto the dock, using a combination of elbow grease and dollies, while two more watched over the crew themselves.

Two of the movers, a man and a woman about the same height, double teamed a particularly heavy box, grumbling unhappily about it in the cold. The spring air was still clinging to winter’s chill and small snowflakes swirled about them as they trudged along. The long platform connecting the ship to the dock was slick with ice and the man slipped unexpectedly, nearly sending them both down into the frigid black water below.

“Shit! Liza!” he gasped, saved only by the ratty old ropes that served as safety rails.

“Fucking Christ!” Liza snapped, grunting as she pulled back hard on the crate, “You’ve got to be more careful, Frank!”

“I didn’t do it on purpose, it’s icy!” responded Frank hotly.

“Would you two quit your whining and hurry up?”

The woman who’d spoken was named Charlotte. Scrawny where the other two were muscled and fretting over a pair of foggy glasses, she held a clipboard and was in charge of tallying inventory for each of the crates. Once Frank and Liza set their load down, they took a moment to catch their breath while the other two movers had a smoke break.

“That,” Frank sniffed, “is a _lot_ of cocaine.”

“Well it ain’t called the ‘Iceberg’ Lounge for nothing,” sniggered Liza.

Ignoring them, Charlotte muttered absently to herself, pushing her glasses up her nose, “Excellent. That’s all of them. The truck will be here any minute.”

“It should be here already,” observed Liza, “It’s not like Daryl to be late.”

Frank shrugged and pulled his pistol out of its holster, “That’s fine. Gives us more time to take care of the crew. Come on.”

Charlotte called bossily after them, “Make it quick and clean!”

They returned to ship, fixing silencers to the ends of their pistols. Down below, the crew members were all kneeling upon a large blue waterproof tarp. The two men on guard duty helped with the task, none of them showing a shred of remorse as they divided up the work evenly and began killing the crew off, one bullet to the skull a piece. Even with silencers muffling the sound, the survivors could still tell what was happening and began to panic in their restraints.

“It feels a little weird,” Liza pondered aloud as she shot a man trying to beg through his gag, “that we’re stealing from Falcone, doesn’t it? What with the truce and all?”

Frank shrugged, kicking another to the ground as he struggled before shooting him, “Falcone’s done for. With the GCPD and the Bat up his ass this whole year, he’s circling the drain. May as well pick the bones clean before the cops get to them, right?”

“I suppose,” said Liza, “it’s just not like the boss to go back on his word.”

Frank snorted, “What’s a kingpin’s word really good for?”

“Watch it,” Liza warned cautiously.

Down on the docks, a semi was backing into place with a shrill beeping announcing its movements. It was unmarked and unassuming like usual, nothing out of the ordinary. Charlotte sighed with relief and motioned for the two men smoking near her to get back to work. They tossed their cigarettes and headed over, opening up the back of the empty semi once it had stopped.

“Looks like it’s time,” Frank said as they stepped back up onto the deck.

“About time, Daryl,” grumbled Liza.

As they made their way back to the docks, Frank glanced back at the two goons they’d left on deck. They disappeared without a word into the control room of the ship for the rest of their own part of the operation.

“Remind me,” Frank asked, “What are they doing again?”

Liza rolled her eyes, “You really should pay more attention at briefings. They’re going to take the ship back out to sea and sink it. Make it look like an accident, you know?”

“But what about the bodies? Won’t it look suspicious when they find them all in the same room together?”

Liza grinned, “Oh, they won’t. Another team is going to come out with a smaller boat to pick up our guys while the ship sinks. They’re going to take the bodies and dump them elsewhere. That way it looks like Falcone’s own crew made off with the missing cargo and staged the ‘accident’.”

As they joined the men hoisting the crates up into the semi, the ship pulled away from the icy dock and disappeared into the fog like a ghost, never to be seen again. It was much faster to get the crates onto the truck than down to the docks, but time was of the essence. With her eyes constantly darting to the hands of the watch upon her wrist, Charlotte snapped at them to hurry up.

“Where the fuck is Daryl?” Frank observed, “That lazy bastard better not think he can get out of the heavy lifting.”

One of the other men took it upon himself to walk around to the head of the truck, calling for the driver. Liza snorted and said to Frank, “Lost another one. Ten bucks says he doesn’t come back and then acts surprised when we’ve finished without him.”

“Twenty bucks says he blames it on Daryl and Daryl blames it on him,” Frank added with a mean-spirited laugh.

As predicted, by the time all the crates were safely loaded into the truck and the back door was shut once more, neither men had returned. Finally losing his patience, Frank stormed up to the front, grumbling assorted threats and vulgarities.

“Hey!” he called in irritation, seeing the driver’s side door hanging open, “Hey, assholes! You—”

He stopped in his tracks, eyes widening as they settled on the body sprawled across the ground below the door. His hand flew instinctually to his pistol, but before he could open his mouth to call to the others, a knife was buried in his throat and the sound of gunfire erupted behind him. Frank gurgled his last, wet dying breath as he collapsed to the ground. The knife was pulled swiftly from his neck with a sickening sound, letting loose an arch of garnet blood that splattered across the side of the truck.

The last thing he saw before death took him was a slim figure, silhouetted in the dark, and the bright gleam of teeth, smiling down at him in a wide, vicious grin.

**2**

Bruce looked at himself in the mirror, but it felt like looking at a stranger. He was standing in the spacious walk-in closet of his bedroom at Wayne Manor, attempting to put together a suit. It had been so long since he’d gone out, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d worn a suit. He didn’t even have one of his own. His father had owned so many that he’d simply had a few tailored adjustments made to one of them and used it at every black-tie occasion. He fidgeted endlessly with the tie as his mind wandered back just a few hours previous to his most recent appointment with Dr. Birch.

“Why do you think you resist letting others into your life?” she’d asked him, her tone gentle and calm.

He shrugged, shaking his head, “Maybe it’s a defense mechanism? Maybe I’m afraid I’ll lose them like I lost my parents? I don’t know.”

“But what about Frida?” she offered, “She’s been with you ever since they passed and yet you push her away. Why do you feel that you can’t talk to her about your pain?”

He thought for a moment before saying, “It’s _my_ problem. She worries about me enough. It’s not fair to put that burden on her. She can’t fix me.”

“It’s not about fixing you,” responded Dr. Birch, “It’s about trusting others with your suffering and allowing them to comfort or commiserate with you. Ultra-independence can actually be a trauma response. It began with the loss you experienced as a child, but perhaps it’s become something you still struggle to overcome because you lost so much _more_ than your parents when they died.”

“Bruce? _Bruce?_ ”

He blinked, coming back to himself as Frida snapped a finger in front of his face, “No time for daydreaming. Forgotten how to tie a tie already, have you?”

“I… think so,” he said, looking at the jumbled mess he’d made of the tie in the mirror.

Frida shook her head and showed him to do it properly, utilizing her own as an example. After watching her demonstrate, he nodded with a prolonged “Ahhh” and swiftly corrected his mishaps.

“And will you be picking Ms. Mallick up?” Frida asked.

Bruce shook his head, “No, she’s meeting me there. She’s driving her parents.”

“Oh,” Frida raised her eyebrows and gave a wry smile, “You’re meeting her parents?”

Bruce made a face, but returned the smile, “It’s not like that, she’s just a… a friend.”

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” Frida murmured mischievously, “You said she’s a scientist, right?”

Bruce left the Manor feeling more apprehensive than he would have liked and took a pill from the orange bottle in his pocket, hoping it would calm his nerves by the time he got there. It was only last night that he’d found out _where_ the Gotham Environmental Committee’s Charity Gala would be held. He listened to soothing music on the drive there, but his stomach still clenched with anxiety as he entered the venue.

Once a seedy casino, the Iceberg Lounge had been bought by Oswald Cobblepot many years ago and he’d heavily renovated it into what had slowly become a luxurious space for Gotham’s privileged elite. Bruce was all too aware of what else went on behind the veneer of posh sophistication, but it would seem that his wealthy peers were either sufficiently dupped by the kingpin’s gentlemanly manner or otherwise willing to look the other way.

Oswald Cobblepot was a man of extravagant taste, to say the least. Within the crystalline opulence of the building’s interior, there were many awing sights to behold. That evening, the theme was “Spring” and it was the cherry blossom in particular that had captured Oswald’s imagination. Soft shades of pink, blue, and violet accented the white marble expanse of the main hall from colored lamps above and everywhere Bruce looked white and pink string lights were threaded through realistic vines of ivy and spring flowers. A great many circular tables were laid out across the floor and each was hollowed in the middle to make room for live cherry blossom trees bursting with pink petals above and lit below by little blue lights.

“Bruce!” an excited voice behind him called.

He was surprised when she threw her arms around him in a tight hug and said, “Evening, Zuri.”

She looked beautiful in a stylish white suit with a plunging neckline, though underneath she wore black for a sharp contrast and short black heels. The dynamic matched well with her dark complexion and hair. Bruce complimented her on the ensemble and she scoffed with a smile.

“What, this old thing?” she joked.

Bruce paused for a fraction of a second, thinking back to that night on the roller coaster when Jay had made the same joke, and then laughed with her. Zuri’s lively giggle prompted an unexpected snort, drawing the disapproving eyes of a few passersby, and she covered her face briefly in embarrassment, though that just made the both of them laugh harder.

“Sorry,” she apologized, “I’m not really appropriate for events like this.”

“No, no,” Bruce assured her, “It’s fine, you’re making me feel better already. I uh… think I remember telling you I don’t get out much. I’m sort of nervous, actually.”

“Oh, don’t be, these things are usually a lot of fun. Although, is it just me or does it look like someone’s getting married in here?”

“I mean, there’s a lot of white and a _lot_ of flowers, so…”

“Gotham City, do you take Oswald Cobblepot to be your lawfully wedded bad boy?” she asked dramatically.

“Oh man,” Bruce grimaced, “I’m think we’d better leave him at the altar.”

Zuri feigned a gasp of surprise, “Bruce Wayne, a runaway bride?”

Bruce shrugged, “I’m too good for him anyway.”

“I can cheers to that, come on, let’s get a drink!”

For a time, Bruce almost forgot his troubles and his anxiety. The bar was a busy attraction, sporting the display of an elegant ice sculpture, inside of which were elegantly positioned cheery blossom branches. He sipped champagne and listened to the live band play pop standards while Zuri ordered a drink on ice with pink petals suspended in each cube. She was an excellent conversationalist and boisterous where he was quiet and reserved, but it was a contrast of balance, rather than conflict. She helped pull him out of his shell with surprising ease and, when it was just the two of them, he was comfortable enough to open up.

“So, why the Iceberg Lounge?” he finally asked.

“Well, say what you want about the ‘allegations’,” she made air quotes with her fingers as she emphasized the word, rolling her eyes, “of organized crime against him, Cobblepot is the GEC’s biggest patron. He donates more to their charities and the committee itself than the next top three contributors combined, including my parents.”

“I’m surprised a man in his, ah, ‘occupation’,” Zuri giggled as he mimicked her air quotes, “cares so much about the environment.”

Zuri shrugged, “I don’t know. Maybe he’s just doing it for the social status. Or maybe he realizes that no matter what you’re doing with your life, you’ve got to have a viable planet to do it on. Penguin Industries are a leading example in Gotham for utilizing green energy and sustainable business practice.”

“Also, fun fact,” she added, gesturing to the little cherry blossoms at each table, “All these trees are going to be planted in a Japanese garden he’s funding in Robinson Park.”

But Bruce wasn’t convinced, “We shouldn’t be dependent on someone like him; On the blood money of a glorified gangster.”

“Where else will we get the funding?” countered Zuri, smirking at him, “Is Wayne Enterprises finally stepping up?”

Bruce offered a small smile in response, “Maybe it’s about time.”

Zuri eventually convinced him to come socialize with the other guests and he again became quiet, content to listen and observe rather than participate. She knew a lot of the guests and all of their names and faces began to blur together after a while, though it was guaranteed they would all remember meeting the elusive Bruce Wayne.

“I heard you lived primarily in Europe,” one woman expressed, “After all the staff at Wayne Manor were let go, everyone assumed you’d left the country.”

A young man had winked at him, “I guess you must be busy sky diving and yachting with models, right? Angela tells some crazy stories about you!”

“Is it true you’re into BDSM and have a secret sex dungeon beneath Wayne Manor?” another asked excitedly in a hushed whisper.

Half the time he wasn’t even sure what to say and let Zuri take the wheel when talking down gossip, turning uncomfortably to his shrimp cocktail. She did an excellent job of shutting down the eager talk of rumors before steering the conversation back into less intrusive territory.

“My _god_ ,” Bruce gasped during a brief moment alone with her, “Since _when_ have I been a leather-clad playboy who dates models? And _who_ is Angela?”

“Gotham loves a mystery man,” Zuri said sympathetically, patting his shoulder, “ _Almost_ as much as it loves a bad boy.”

Zuri’s interest in the sciences was mirrored in her parents, Rajesh and Maya Mallick, whom they eventually found their way to. They were both published authors and well-respected figures within their particular scientific communities. Short in stature, like their daughter, they wore jovial expressions with drinks in their hands. And like everyone else, they were surprised to hear the Wayne name.

“ _The_ Bruce Wayne?” her father asked, peering curiously up at him.

“Does this mean your company will finally be supporting the cause?” added her mother eagerly.

“I surely hope so, ma’am,” Bruce answered.

“As would we all.”

He knew the accented voice before his eyes found the source. Standing at around four feet and five inches with a custom Armani suit, designer glasses, and a handsome bearded face of middle age framed by thick waves of hair, Oswald Cobblepot looked more like a star just off of the red carpet than a kingpin. At his side was a gorgeous woman with long black hair and endless tattoos running the lengths of each of her limbs.

He reached a hand out to shake Bruce’s, smiling amiably, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bruce Wayne. It’s nice to know there’s actually flesh and blood behind the name.”

Bruce hesitated for a moment, but put on the spot and not wanting to make a scene, he reached out and shook Oswald’s hand. At that very moment, a camera flashed and a grinning reporter who had materialized out of nowhere asked, “Mr. Wayne, are you planning to show your support for the GEC’s newest propositions to the mayor?”

“I-I, uh…” Bruce stammered, stuck like a deer in oncoming headlights.

“Of course, he is,” Oswald answered confidently for him, “I’m sure through his very presence here, Mr. Wayne wishes to express his dedication to the Committee’s continued efforts for environmental sustainability. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Wayne?”

“Y…Yes,” Bruce scrambled, trying his best not to let it sound like a question, “Environmental sustainability is… of paramount importance.”

“And Mr. Cobblepot, do you have anything to say about the allegations of drug abuse being thrown at you?”

“Let’s keep the questions on topic,” he gave a wave of his hand, the edges of his smile sharpening, “That’s enough for now.”

To his credit, the reporter knew better than to argue and retreated back into the crowd. Once he was gone, Oswald smirked at Bruce, “You don’t know anything about our propositions, do you?”

Bruce felt a change in him once the camera was gone, an acidity that wasn’t there before, and he answered firmly, “I’m here to learn.”

“I do hope so,” Oswald responded, quick and snappy, “Your company has been a rather large problem for the GEC, after all. Your board of directors act as if ‘reform’ and ‘green energy’ were the end of Wayne Enterprises as we know it.”

“Ah,” Bruce could feel his face heating up in mingled irritation and embarrassment at his lack of knowledge about his own company and he bit back, “Well you’re obviously a very knowledgeable conservationist, but I’m curious, as the CEO of Penguin Industries, what is your stance on the destruction of rain forests in Central America caused by the harvesting of the coca plant?”

Zuri’s hands flew to her mouth in shock and for a moment, even Oswald seemed at a loss for words. Then a careful smile split across his face and he said, “You’re an interesting man, Mr. Wayne, a man of great wealth and power. But without _wisdom_ that wealth and power mean nothing. Therefore, _you_ mean nothing. I suggest you take a good hard look at your own books before questioning mine. Your parents figured it out and, one way or another, you will as well.”

Before Bruce could respond, a loud and enthusiastic greeting filled the room from the raised podium at the front of the hall, “Good evening, Gotham!”

Applause broke out all around and Oswald disappeared into the crowd with a smirk, leaving Bruce to swallow all of the questions he now had. His eyes narrowed however, as he watched one of the employees hurry through the throng of guests, wide eyed and pale. When she reached Oswald, she whispered into his ear and he nodded shortly. Then he said something to his date and headed straight through the crowd towards the elevator without her.

Bruce jumped at the feeling of a hand setting upon his shoulder and tore his eyes away from their host to look behind him.

“Sorry,” Zuri said quickly, looking up at him with concern in her eyes, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… Are you okay? That was a little… _tense_.”

Bruce didn’t answer for a moment, his eyes darting briefly back to Oswald and lingering on him, before he said stiffly, “Yeah, I… I’m fine.”

**3**

Within Oswald’s personal office, there was a magnificent salt-water aquarium built right into one of the walls. Filled to the brim with life and color, from the bright blues and reds of the algae to the variety of shapely corals and all the beautiful fish that lived within, it was as though it had been plucked straight from the Great Barrier Reef itself. The sheer size of it guaranteed a gluttonous feast for the eyes.

“Do you know why I _love_ this tank?” Oswald asked as he admired it.

Standing before his desk, soaked head to toe in polluted salt water with green slim still clinging to her clothing, was Charlotte. She clutched at the fluffy white towel she’d been given, but it was far from enough to warm her shivering body. Her eyes were wide and fearful behind her broken glasses and though she opened her mouth to answer him, no words came out.

“I designed it myself,” Oswald continued, “Every coral, every fish, ever so carefully chosen to balance the delicate ecosystem within. It is truly a marvel of control and precision, requiring both constant dedication and meticulous care to maintain.”

He turned to face her with his hands held at his waist, fingertips connected, “I use that same level of control and precision when choosing whom I work with, Ms. Gauthier.”

“A-Ah,” she managed to stutter quietly.

“Ms. Zsasz, for example,” Oswald gestured to the stoic woman standing at attention beside his desk, “My right hand, strong as steel and swift as Death itself.”

Zsasz was frightful even to look upon, with haunted eyes that had laid witness to unimaginable horrors. Her narrow face was marred by four great scars that stretched from the beginnings of her shaved hairline to the end of her jaw, as though some great clawed beast had attacked her. It was rumored, however, that she’d made these markings herself, for there were many more all across her body: a scar for every life she’d taken.

“Victoria could flay a man living without losing a minute of sleep—an excellent skill for extracting information from those burdened with any…” he paused, searching for the right words before settling upon, “ _ill-advised_ reservations.”

Charlotte stared fixedly at her feet and said in a shaking voice, clinging desperately to whatever poise she had left, “I h-have no such reservations, sir, I swear.”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Oswald smiled warmly, “You are vital to this operation, Ms. Gauthier. An eidetic memory is not a common gift, after all.”

“So, tell me,” His green eyes were hard as stone as they peered down at her from the raised platform his desk stood upon, “ _What happened?_ ”

Charlotte swallowed hard, gathering her nerve before saying, “We were ambushed. They came in the truck, four of them. They must have been hiding in the cabin while we loaded the back.”

“And no one had the foresight to check the cabin for the correct driver before loading?”

She felt her face flush with color as she shook her head silently.

“Hm,” Oswald clicked his tongue, “Continue.”

“Once we’d finished loading, they overtook us. They all h-had automatic rifles and it… it happened so fast.”

“Did you recognize any of these men?”

Charlotte nodded eagerly, her eyes bulging, “Yes. At least two of them were Falcone’s. Low-level grunts I’d seen before.”

“Ahh,” Oswald’s brow furrowed, “What about the other two?”

“I wasn’t able to see their faces clearly. One of them was wearing one of those plastic Batman masks,” Charlotte said, bowing her head, “Liza tried to protect me, but they… they shot her and she fell into me, knocking us both off of the pier. I wasn’t…”

She swallowed again and took a trembling breath, “I wasn’t able to save her body—the undertow—I… I was lucky I even made it to the ladder.”

A moment of silence followed, but not for Liza or Charlotte. Oswald exhaled heavily through his nose before pondering aloud to himself, “So Falcone’s men were there. But were they there on orders or were they runaways taking matters into their own hands?”

“They weren’t on orders,” Charlotte sniffled, rubbing her arms beneath the towel.

“When I made it to the ladder, I climbed up just enough to get out of the water and I waited until everything was over. I could hear them at the end,” she explained, “Two of their number had died in the ambush, but one of the survivors didn’t care at all. He even laughed. Said it would ‘look better that way’. And when the other asked how, he… he shot him.”

“Did you see which one made off with the truck?” Oswald asked, looking at her intensely.

She shook her head, “No, I’m sorry. All I know is that it was the one wearing the mask. None of the bodies had one.”

There was a knock at the door and upon Oswald’s response, a man peered into the room, “Sir, Mr. Falcone is here to see you. He says it’s extremely urgent.”

“When it rains, it pours,” Oswald sighed heavily in frustration and then asked, “Could you take Ms. Gauthier for me? She’ll be needing a safe ride home and a good night’s rest.”

Her eyes glimmered with tears as she looked up at him in relief, “Th-Thank you, sir.”

“Of course. You’ve given me valuable information, Ms. Gauthier, more valuable than you know.”

As she was led out, Falcone stormed moodily in, his face a twisted mess of emotion as he snapped, “What’s this bullshit about ‘coming in through the back’ now, Cobblepot? Something fucking wrong with me using the front door?”

“Yes,” Oswald answered briskly, “You’re a known criminal, Mr. Falcone. Your face has been plastered in every newspaper in Gotham all year. While you know I deeply appreciate our working relationship; I am also a man of increasing legitimacy and stature among Gotham’s elite.”

Falcone opened his mouth to respond, but Oswald continued over him, “And in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m hosting a charity gala here tonight. It would be quite uncomfortable for everyone if you’re seen on the premises. One might make the mistake of presuming you were invited.”

Falcone grit his teeth and clenched his fists, looking positively furious. It wasn’t that he was interested in being invited or cared about the opinions of others, but he still couldn’t stand to be insulted so brazenly. Much to Oswald’s surprise though, he slowly forced himself to regain his composure.

“You know what, fine,” he snapped, “I don’t care about your tree-hugger charity shit. We have bigger problems, you and I.”

“And what problems would those be?” Oswald asked, pulling a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from his desk.

No conversation with the foul-tempered Falcone couldn’t be smoothed out with liquor and patience. Oswald could see his eyes light up at the sight of the expensive brand, but he remained irritable none the less, waiting to respond until he had a glass in his hand. He downed the first with one gulp and his host made sure the second was filled quite a bit more. Once his nerves were a shade more mellow, he rustled in his jacket pocket and pulled out several photographs, slapping them down upon the desk.

“I _got_ him,” Falcone growled triumphantly, “You doubted me all this time and now here it is: _Proof!_ We set him up and he fell for the bait!”

Oswald spread the photographs out before him, looking carefully at each in turn. Despite their decent resolution and clarity, they were very dark and it was difficult to discern what exactly was happening. They depicted in sequence: a black figure flying from the window of an apartment, the same figure falling towards the ground, then rising up from the ground, and finally standing on the neighboring rooftop. It was the final photograph that really caught Oswald’s attention because it was the only photo where the pointed ears of Batman’s cowl and the shapes of his cape and armor could clearly be seen, silhouetted against the city lights.

“I’m not so sure,” responded Oswald slowly, to his great frustration, “Look at this here. There’s no shadow on the ground here in the second image as he’s falling, but as he’s rising, there’s a shadow. Almost like… he dropped something.”

Falcone’s eyes boggled as he demanded, “So _what_ if he dropped something? I caught him red-fucking-handed, you stubborn mother—Listen to me.”

His hands gripped the edges of the desk, knuckles white and eyes wide as he hissed, trying to keep his volume down despite his vehement rage, “I’m telling you: _The Bat has gone homicidal_. He’s worn my operation down to nothing— _Nothing!_ And if you think he ain’t coming for you next, you’re a fucking fool!”

“What exactly are you proposing, Falcone?” Oswald asked, sipping lightly on his whiskey.

“ _Help me_ ,” he demanded, emphasizing each word, “Help me kill the Bat. I’ve got a plan. I’ve got a shipment coming in tonight. It’ll be brought to one of my warehouses where I’ve placed the rest of my men and when he comes, we’ll be waiting for him.”

“You believe this will happen tonight?”

“If not tonight, then soon!” he snapped, “Hall is the next target and he’s not leaving that fucking warehouse unless it’s in a body bag.”

“Hall?” Oswald asked sharply.

Falcone hesitated, grimacing as Oswald glowered at him, “What? He’s all I got fuckin’ left, what else am I supposed to—”

“Remind me,” Oswald interrupted him with a sour smile, “what _is_ Hall?”

Falcone sighed heavily, closing his eyes, “He says he’s an ‘identarian’—”

“And that means he’s a…?”

Falcone bit his tongue irritably before saying, “Fine! He’s a fuckin’ Nazi, alright? You think I don’t know that?”

“A Nazi, yes,” continued Oswald in a dangerously patronizing tone, “And somehow, as a _person of the Jewish faith_ , you can imagine I may have some reservations about climbing into bed with the Aryan brotherhood, no matter what ridiculous new names they’re hiding under.”

“Look,” Falcone hissed, “if you can help me kill the bat and I can get my operation back up to speed, you can _have_ him. You can kill his whole fucking crew if you want, I don’t care.”

Oswald took his time pondering this particular offer, his gaze wandering back to his fish tank. When he spoke, he was demure once more, “You’re a gambling man, aren’t you, Falcone? I hear down at the Empire Casino they call you the Roman.”

Falcone couldn’t help looking a little proud of himself at that, though he answered hotly as ever, “Yeah, so what?”

Oswald looked up at him, “If you want my help, you’ll have to make a little wager with me.”

“What kind of wager?”

“I’ll send a team of my best, including Ms. Zsasz, to lie in wait outside the warehouse. In exchange…”

He picked up one of his elegant fountain pens, flipped over the nearest photograph, and wrote a number on it before sliding it over to the other man. Falcone’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he picked it up, but once he saw what had been written, they bulged and his mouth fell open in disbelief.

“I wager that particular sum,” said Oswald with a smile, “that Batman is _not_ the killer.”

If it were possible for Falcone’s eyes to open wider, they would have fallen right out of his skull as he sputtered, “Wh-What? You can’t be serious—I-I have _proof_ that it’s him!”

“Am I to take it that you agree to the terms of the wager then?” Oswald asked, “After all, with that much money, you could easily rebuild your operation.”

Sweat dripped down the side of Falcone’s face as he continued to stare at the figure he had written, debating his dwindling options.

“However, should you _lose_ the wager, well,” Oswald chuckled, “I suppose you might have _just_ enough to retire somewhere quaint and quiet. _Far_ from Gotham, of course.”

**4**

By the time Bruce had noticed that their host had rejoined the gala, dinner had already been served and speeches and presentations from the members of the GEC and their featured guests were being made at the podium. Zuri’s mother was the last to speak and was currently expressing how happy she was to see so many new faces at the event.

Despite Bruce’s best efforts to follow Frida’s advice and prevent work from getting in the way of the evening, it felt impossible to put it aside while he was residing under his enemy’s roof. He deeply regretted his decision to not slip away to follow Oswald and had fallen into a brooding silence. Zuri picked up on this change in mood, but was clearly unsure of how to handle it. She tried to make conversation with him as before, but he gave short responses she could do little with and rebuffed her when she tried to figure out what was wrong. He was so deep in his troubled thoughts, he barely noticed when his own name was announced to the room. He looked up, surprised, as Zuri’s mother gestured for him to come join her on stage.

“Go on, go on!” Zuri urged him quietly with a grin and he rose with apprehension as the room broke into another round of applause.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Wayne,” Maya Mallick said kindly as he stepped up beside her, “Your presence at this event gives me great hope for the next generation of Gothamites. To have the powerhouse of Wayne Enterprises join us in the fight for sustainability means more than you know. The GEC remembers the great efforts of your parents, Thomas and Martha Wayne, and we are so pleased that you have followed in their footsteps.”

Bruce was deeply surprised and moved by this show of gratitude, especially when she turned and embraced him to the sound of applause.

As she gave him a tight squeeze, she said, “Your parents would be proud.”

“Thank you,” he responded and suddenly a great urge came upon him and he asked, “Would… Would you mind if I said something?”

“No, not at all,” she stepped aside and gestured for him to take the podium.

When he stepped up, he felt his nervousness melt away as he publicly thanked Maya for her kind words and then said, “For too long I have been a bystander, watching the city I love from afar, but no more. I want to be a part of helping Gotham grow and change for the better. And to prove that I am true to my word, I’ll be making a donation to this evening’s charity, doubling the amount of the highest donation made tonight.”

Bruce shook Maya’s hand and returned to his seat among the flashing of cameras and a standing ovation. Only one face among the otherwise ecstatic guests looked soured by his announcement. Oswald Cobblepot clapped slowly, his mouth set in a tight smile, as his steely eyes glowered at the man who had just usurped his place of honor as the night’s highest bidder.

After that, the guests rose once more to drink and mingle before the charity auction. In a far better spirits than he had been, Bruce thanked Zuri’s mother profusely before Zuri herself swept him back up to the bar for another drink. The mood of the evening was almost as it had been before and conversation and laughter flowed once more between them. But still a shadow hung over Bruce. His eyes continued to follow Oswald whenever possible and questions about what the man had said about his parents burnt holes in his attention span.

When they joined a group of Zuri’s friends, she became engrossed in conversation with them and Bruce was able to obsess in private. He watched Oswald endlessly, waiting for an opportunity, and when the host suddenly excused himself and stepped out into the entrance hall, Bruce slipped away without a word to follow him.

When he exited the main hall, he found himself standing before the grand staircase that led down to the spacious foyer and the front door, but Oswald was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, he scanned the floor below, descending a few steps to see if somehow his target had moved faster than anticipated.

“Something left to say, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce turned to see Oswald standing at the top of the stairs, looking down on him with a smug expression on his face as he added, “Did you think you were being clever, coming out here to tell me off in private? Oh, yes. Your eyes have been burning a hole in my back for nearly half an hour, my boy, of course I knew you’d follow me.”

Bruce frowned up at him, “Tell me what you meant earlier. What exactly did my parents ‘figure out’?”

Oswald laughed softly, “You poor, ignorant thing. You really don’t know?”

“Try me,” he growled.

“Well for starters, boy, there’s no such thing as an ethical billionaire,” Oswald explained matter-of-factly, “Wealth, especially the kind of wealth your grandparents and their parents before them spent their entire lives amassing, is never something gained without someone else losing. And when Thomas and Martha Wayne inherited that wealth, they thought they could change the rules.”

“What would a criminal like you know of my parents?” Bruce said darkly, though his stomach began to twist into knots of anxiety.

“Enough to know that they were fools. Idealism will get you nowhere, Mr. Wayne,” responded Oswald, “In the end, there will always be powers far bigger than you or I that keep the wheels of this machine running smoothly.”

“What are you saying?”

He smiled, “I’m saying wealth is power, Mr. Wayne, and power is a dirty game that never ends. If you want to play, you’d best start learning the rules. Or you’ll end up just like your parents.”

“Bruce?” Zuri stepped out into the entrance hall as Oswald walked back inside.

She frowned at the troubling sight of the sinister man looking so pleased with himself. Then she spotted her date down in the foyer and called in vain, “Bruce!”

But he didn’t look back as he shut the front door behind him, leaving her standing there, puzzled and hurt. He ignored the chauffer who offered to get his car and ignored the fact that he’d left his jacket behind. He wasn’t going back for it now. Getting into his car, he turned it on and ignored the buzzing messages from Frida on his phone, asking how the night was going. He drove all the way home in silence with a soft ringing filling his ears, his body moving mechanically while his mind checked itself out.

When he looked back on it, he couldn’t remember getting home or walking upstairs or laying on his bed. He finally came back to himself sometime later, blinking up at his ceiling. There was a cold wetness upon his face and a warm body laying against his own. He sniffled wetly and moved to sit up, hand groping for the tissue box on his bedside table. Green hair entered his field of vision as Jay moved to let him up, though he didn’t speak at first as Bruce blew his nose and then sat quietly.

“Hey,” Jay said, as if he’d just walked in, “You okay?”

Bruce looked at him, his movements slow and his eyes red and swollen, and then shook his head. “No,” he said softly, “I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay in a long, _long_ time.”


	9. Reminiscence: Methuselah's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Flashback: Jay and Bruce stumble upon a body in North City Park and the events that follow lead them to flee in terror, taking refuge at one of Mom's old haunts._
> 
> ==========
> 
> Excerpt:
> 
> "Jay hopped off of the bike and rapped frantically on a door Bruce could only guess was the emergency exit of The Red Herring. A lantern that matched the one up front hung beside it, flooding the ally with a bright blue light. The man who opened the door was built like a tank with a frightful scowl and a lazy eye and at first, he seemed angry as he glowered down at the two boys. Then he saw that each was bleeding profusely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Soundtrack:  
>   
> Scene 1: I Just Hate Him  
> "Everyone But You" by the Front Bottoms  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3UsL6Mn63I&list=PLmn0lxfD9DrkhahMg6AWe1ETzJMWFd50Y&index=8)
> 
> Scene 2: Welcome to Methuselah's  
> "The Dope Show" by Marilyn Manson  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FC-Kos_b1sE&list=PLmn0lxfD9DrkhahMg6AWe1ETzJMWFd50Y&index=9)
> 
> Scene 3: Keep the Blues at Bay  
> "Smile Like You Mean It" by The Killers  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wr4SVUH1MbM&list=PLmn0lxfD9DrkhahMg6AWe1ETzJMWFd50Y&index=10)

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

PunkyBlooze

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_All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze._

_This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen._

_For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

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* * *

###  **Reminiscence: Methuselah's**

**1**

“What was that guy’s problem?” Bruce asked Jay as they rode through the city that night, his bike kicking up flurries colorful leaves as they approached North City Park.

After he’d confronted Jaxon, the young man had stormed irritably from the room without another word, refusing to even acknowledge Bruce. A small bruise had blossomed on Jay’s cheekbone where he’d been backhanded, but he didn’t seem to mind. He held onto Bruce’s shoulder with one hand for balance and puffed a cigarette with the other, occasionally showering him in ashes.

“Oh, that’s just how ‘Jackass’ is,” Jay laughed meanly, “His head is wedged so far up his own butt, it’s a wonder he doesn’t constantly reek of _shit_.”

Bruce was surprised by the amount of malice in the other boy’s voice and he inquired, “What did you do to him?”

“Me? _He_ started it,” Jay snapped defensively, “I was just _joking_. It’s _his_ fault he can’t fucking take it.”

“Alright, alright,” said Bruce, his brow furrowing, “You don’t have to bite _my_ head off.”

Jay puffed moodily for a minute before flicking his cigarette deliberately into a pile of dead leaves and then wrapping his arms around Bruce’s shoulders. The smokey smell of him made Bruce’s nose wrinkle in discomfort.

“Sorry,” he crooned apologetically, “I just _hate_ him. Ooh, turn in here!”

Bruce was a bit apprehensive about going into the park this late at night, but he reminded himself of their triumph over the purse thief and felt a little rush of confidence. After all, they weren’t just a couple of kids, they were Man-Bat and the Killer Clown: Terrors of Gotham. Still though, it was a difficult to see exactly where he was going through the fog and he ended up pulling his mask down around his neck to improve his line of sight. Although the craggy asphalt path that wound through the park was occasionally flanked by lamps, many of the bulbs within them were flickering weakly or blown out.

“Are you going to tell Mom?” he asked, though he felt he already knew the answer.

“So I can look like a baby who cries to mommy when shit hits the fan?” Jay scoffed predictably, “No way. I don’t need anyone to save me.”

“Except for me apparently,” Bruce commented.

To his surprise, Jay actually struggled to make a comeback to that and he could hear the embarrassment in his voice as he stammered, “You—Fuckin—Whatever. Piss off.”

“What are we looking for?” asked Bruce curiously, changing the subject as Jay followed his lead and pulled his own mask down for vision’s sake.

“There’s a tent town in this park and I know some of the people that live there,” Jay explained, his irritable tone lightening as the conversation shifted, “They see a lot of strange things happen throughout the city and I figured it would be worth it to talk to them—see if they could give us any leads.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, “A tent town?”

“You know,” Jay said, as though it were obviously, “Like, a bunch of tents set up together and people live there.”

“I didn’t know people did that.”

“Oh, would you look at that,” Jay snorted sarcastically, “a rich boy who doesn’t know any better.”

It was Bruce’s turn to be at a loss for a snappy response, but he was saved the need to by the soft gasp of surprise Jay suddenly gave. They’d just turned a corner and the thickets of trees on either side of the path had given way to open space, revealing the Giordano Botanical Gardens. It was an elegant complex of greenhouses with three main structures connected by narrow arms. The glass surfaces reflected the light from the moon through twisting red ivy that wound its way up from the ground to the ceiling.

“It’s gone,” Jay breathed in shock, “It’s all gone.”

A cobblestone path led up to the Gardens and a few yards from the double door entrance itself was a square where a beautiful fountain bubbled away through the night. A little plaque at the base of it read:

_Hope Fountain_

_Erected on Behalf of Our Generous Benefactors,_

_Thomas and Martha Wayne_

_May They Rest in Peace_

The lamps that surrounded this structure were well-kept and bright and beneath them, sitting upon one of the two benches that flanked the fountain, was a raggedy looking man with wild hair in a dirty brown coat. He was rocking gently back and forth and occasionally swatted at something about his head, though there were no bugs around.

When he saw them approaching, he immediately called, “Hey, you got any change?”

“Bill!” Jay cried, hopping off the back of the bike and jogging over to him, “Bill, it’s me, Jay!”

The man didn’t seem to recognize the name and peered at him suspiciously through the dark, but once the small boy entered the light of the lamp, Bill offered a tentative smile and crooned, “Oooh, hey there, little buddy! Could I bum a cig?”

Jay pulled a pack out of his pocket and handed two cigarettes to Bill as he asked, “What happened to the town? Where is everyone?”

Bill’s expression fell again and for a moment Bruce thought he would start crying. He didn’t answer at first, instead digging around in his various pockets for his lighter, his hands shaking. When he found it, try as he may, it was too low on fluid to yield a flame and Jay offered up his own to his appreciation.

Once he’d puffed a little, blinking away the wetness in his eyes, Bill finally answered, “The fuckin’ cops came and tore it all down a couple days ago. Destroyed everything. All my stuff… my tent, my radio, my clothes—It’s all gone. They even took my good boots, all because I refused to leave.”

He gestured to the ratty pair of sneakers on his feet, which were sporting a few holes, and sniffled hard, “Everything’s gone now.”

“Assholes,” Jay swore irritably.

“Why did they tear it down?” asked Bruce, sympathetic to the man’s pain, but confused.

“They said it was ugly,” Bill shrugged, “Said all the people comin’ to see the Garden wouldn’t wanna see us and our tents.”

Jay rolled his eyes, “Fuck the Gardens.”

“Ms. Wayne would’ve let us stay,” Bill looked down at his hands, shaking in his lap, “She wouldn’t’ve cared. But she’s dead now.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked, his brow furrowing.

Bill offered a little smile, “The Waynes paid for the Gardens, but I met Martha Wayne once. She worked at the shelter sometimes. She was a nice woman. Knew what it was like to come from nothin’. She wouldn’t have minded if we stayed by her Garden. She wouldn’t have let them destroy our town and take my boots.”

Bruce felt an aching in his chest as a tear fell from the man’s eye. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“Here,” Jay dug around in his bag for a moment before pulling out the silver flask and offering it to him.

“Oh, no,” Bill shook his head, though he eyed it hungrily, “I, uh, I’m trying to go sober, but I really appreciate it. I’d take a couple more cigs if you got some to spare. Or some change.”

Jay gave him the rest of the pack and Bruce pulled out the fifteen dollars he had left over from buying the ticket to the Freak Show and offered that as well. Bill was grateful for these donations and thanked them profusely as he swatted at the air.

“Speaking of Martha Wayne,” Jay said, “We were wondering if you or anyone else had heard anything about the guy that killed her.”

Bill shook his head sadly, “I don’t know anything about that, but whoever he is, I hope he rots.”

The boys left the square a bit lighter in their wallets, but heavier in their hearts. As they rode down the path and into the trees once more, Bruce said quietly, “I thought cops were supposed to help people.”

“Yeah, well,” sighed Jay, leaning against his back, “Not all people.”

“Well that’s… that’s bullshit,” Bruce responded awkwardly, unaccustomed to using vulgar language. The attempt amused Jay however and he smiled.

“Hearing you swear is adorable, Bruce,” he teased, “Like a puppy trying to be tough.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Bruce protested sharply, embarrassed, “You didn’t have anything to say about it earlier when I swore at Jaxon.”

“Yeah, well, that was because you were sticking up for me. My _hero!_ ”

He licked his lips and laid a discomfortingly wet kiss on Bruce’s cheek, prompting a sharp, angry yelp of, “Ugh! Gross!”

Bruce pressed his cheek into his shoulder, trying to dry his skin while Jay cackled, “You can’t wipe it off, you can only rub it in!”

In his effort to get the saliva off of his face, Bruce pulled the handlebars too hard to one side and the bike abruptly tipped over, throwing Jay down the hill that sloped sharply to their left where he disappeared with a yelp of surprise among the dark foliage. Hissing in pain, Bruce just barely managed to keep himself and the bike from sliding down after him through the slick layer of muddy leaves that caked the ground. He scrambled to push himself and the bike upright and then looked back down the hill, dazed from the fall.

“Jay?” he called, but there was no answer.

Bruce nudged his bike’s kickstand out with his foot and left it on the path as he picked his way carefully through the wild, pointy undergrowth. Twice he nearly slipped, grabbing desperately onto low tree branches or gnarled bushes for support. Then, pausing for a moment, he dug through his bag for the flashlight he’d had the foresight to bring with him and turned the beam of light this way and that, cutting through the darkness as he looked around.

“Jay!” he called once more, fear beginning to creep into his mind, “Jay, where are you?”

“Here!”

Bruce nearly jumped right out of his skin as a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders in the dark. Purely out of instinct and the sharp spike of adrenaline, he whipped around and sank a fist into Jay’s gut. The small boy crumpled with a sharp “ _Oof!_ ”, his arms wrapped around his middle, and Bruce knelt down beside him, apologizing profusely.

“I’m so sorry! I-I didn’t realize it was you!”

“ _Wow_ ,” Jay gasped in a tight, pained voice, wincing up at him from his knees, “Remind me to never piss _you_ off.”

“A-Are you okay?” asked Bruce, helping him to his feet and brushing twigs and leaves from his muddied clothes.

“Nope. I’m a goner. I… I see a light,” Jay wheezed, reaching a hand out to the darkness, “Satan? Is that you?”

“Jay, I’m _serious_ ,” insisted Bruce in frustration, shaken by his own actions.

“So am I,” Jay insisted right back, “That asshole you’re looking for better watch out. Fuck… _Ouch._ ”

They stood there for a moment while Jay recovered and caught his breath, leaning on Bruce’s shoulder. It was terribly quiet all around them. All the crickets of the summer had died off and all the birds were fast asleep, leaving nothing but the whistle of the cold autumn wind through the trees.

Bruce could feel his heart starting to beat faster in his chest and he looked around a bit more, just to assure himself that there was no one watching them in the dark. It was then that his flashlight fell upon a sight that made his blood run cold: A human hand sticking out from a pile of leaves. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move. His eyes were wide as they could ever be as he stared at the hand and slowly, _slowly_ , began moving up the arm. The body of a young man lie there in the foliage, his face streaked in something dark and sinister.

Violent images flashed suddenly in his mind’s eye: His mother’s dead eyes staring up at him. His father’s mouth hanging open. Blood splattered on the pavement. Blood splattered on his face and clothing. Blood pooling beneath their bodies. Dead.

 _Dead_ , he thought, _He’s dead._

He grabbed Jay’s wrist without much thought, his grip so tight that the smaller boy immediately looked around at him, “What is it?”

When Bruce didn’t answer, his eyes followed the beam from the flashlight to the body and he sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. For a long minute, the two boys stood there, unmoving. Then Jay finally pulled himself from Bruce’s grip and slowly approached it. Bruce couldn’t see what he was doing as he crouched and bent over the body, but he didn’t really want to. He closed his eyes tightly and did the breathing exercises Frida had taught him to do when he began to panic.

“Bruce, it’s fine,” Jay called to him after a little while, “He’s okay.”

Bruce didn’t even notice, hellbent on focusing on his breathing. It wasn’t until Jay had gotten up and come back over to him, setting a hand on his trembling shoulder, that he tentatively opened his eyes. “You’re shaking,” Jay said softly, “Listen, he’s alive.”

“He is?” asked Bruce in relief.

“Yeah, he’s drunk, that’s all. Look,” Jay set his own hand over Bruce’s on the flashlight, directing the beam to the man’s half-empty forty-ounce bottle.

“And the… the blood on his face?”

“It’s just paint,” Jay gestured for Bruce to approach and as he got closer and the light shone on the man’s face, he could see the cheap, smeared Halloween makeup more clearly.

“And if that doesn’t make you feel better,” Jay added with amusement, “Check this out.”

He brushed back the man’s bushy bangs to reveal a crudely drawn penis that had been scrawled across his forehead in thick black marker. This did manage to elicit a nervous little laugh from Bruce, who was slowly calming back down, especially since he could now see the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest as he breathed.

“Hey, this even freaked _me_ out for a second there,” Jay assured Bruce, eager to help him relax again, “So don’t feel bad, okay?”

“Okay,” Bruce nodded, “But, um… Shouldn’t we do something?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno, but… we can’t just leave him here. It’s cold, he could freeze or get sick. We should call 9-1-1.”

Jay groaned a little, looking between Bruce and the drunken man, “Do we _have_ to?”

“It’s the right thing to do. But I left my cellphone at home.”

“Ugh… I guess we could go back to that 24-hour bodega we passed and ask the cashier to call.”

This seemed like a reasonable plan, so the boys climbed carefully back up to the path and mounted the bike, riding back the way they’d come. As they approached the Botanical Gardens once more however, they heard a disturbing sound. Bill was shouting at the top of his lungs.

“Get away from me!” he screamed, “I’m not crazy! Stop calling me crazy!”

The boys exchanged a wide-eyed look before Bruce began peddling hard to get them through the trees. As the clearing opened up before them, neither was prepared for the brawl they stumbled upon. Two cops, one with short blonde hair and one with a shaved head, were beating on Bill with clubs while the haggard man swung at them wildly with his fists. He managed to sock one in the gut, but the other smashed him in the face with his club after that and blood spurted from his broken nose. Bill went down, clutching his face in agony as the two began hitting him again and again as he curled up in a fetal position on the ground.

Bruce didn’t have a chance to react. Jay had already pulled the metal baseball bat from his drawstring bag and was racing towards Bill on foot, the clown mask back over his face. For a moment, Bruce was frozen once more, unsure of what to do. He had never _ever_ imagined attacking a police officer. He watched in horror as Jay’s bat made contact with the bald officer’s lower back, aiming for the kidneys, with a loud _thud!_

“Get off of him!” Jay bellowed furiously and when the officer whipped around, he hit him sharply in the gut and sent him tumbling back on his rear end, wheezing.

The blonde officer acted swiftly, taking the end of his club and smashing it into Jay’s face much like he’d done to Bill. This was too much for Bruce. As he watched the small boy collapse, he took the wooden bat in his hand and pulled his own mask back on. The blonde officer was too focused on Jay to even notice Bruce riding up on him. The bat cracked him in the head, knocking him right off of his feet and flat on his back, stars popping before his eyes and blood dripping from his mouth.

As Bruce rode passed him, the bald officer stuck his club between the spokes of his front wheel, causing the entire frame to buck and send Bruce flying right over the handlebars. He tumbled painfully upon the cobblestones, the skin of his hand and chin scraping bloody on the rocks. Breathless and dazed, he scrambled to his feet, realizing too late that the baseball bat had flown from his hands. This was nothing like the purse thief. Fear was not on his side as he faced a grown and powerful opponent whose face was twisted with fury as he bore down upon him. But the moment he raised his club, his kidneys received another beating from Bill, who had picked up the bat that Bruce had dropped and made sure to hit him in the exact same spot as Jay. He crumpled once more to the ground.

Bill’s streaming red eyes were wide with terror as he helped Jay to his feet while Bruce hoisted the bike back up. As he mounted the seat, he said frantically, “Split up. You run that way and we’ll go this way.”

Too panic-stricken to argue, Bill nodded in agreement. Once Jay hopped back onto the pegs, they bolted in their assigned directions as the cops clambered back to their feet. The bald officer was the first up and he ran after the boys on foot, shouting, “Get back here, you shits!”

“Fuck you, pig!” Jay sneered back at him.

Bruce had never been so terrified of a police officer in his life and he pumped the pedals as hard as he could to escape him just as the blonde officer regained his bearings and joined the chase. The two of them were far faster and more fit than the purse thief and Bruce was shocked at how long they were able to keep up with the bike. They were peeling out of the park by the time the officers finally fell behind, shaking fists in their wake. But there were no cries of victory from the boys, no rush of success for their narrow escape. This time nothing but fear followed them.

“They’ve probably got a squad car somewhere close,” Jay said after a while, pulling his bloodied mask off and revealing the stream of red running from his split brow, “We’ve got to find a place to lay low for a while. They’ll be looking for us.”

“Should we go back to the Freak Show?” Bruce suggested nervously.

Jay winced as he touched a hand tentatively to the wound on his face, “Ouch! Too far. But… I might know a spot that Mom used to go. It’s been years, but they might help.”

“Is it close?”

“Closer than home,” Jay grimaced, glancing behind them, “Right now that’s the best option we’ve got.”

**2**

Bruce was apprehensive as they pulled up to a dark building with a wide overhang. It appeared deserted and he eyed the main entrance as they passed, heading for the gated ally to the left of it. It was rundown, like most places in the neighborhood, and its dusty windows were all covered by thick black curtains. There was no direct indication whatsoever that this was a place of business and the only sign of life from it was the soft, rhythmic pulse of music from within. An iron lantern hung beside the door, giving off an eerie red glow, and a sign above it said: The Red Herring.

“What is this place?” asked Bruce as they rode down the dark alley way. The building was longer than he expected.

“You’ll see. Stop here.”

Jay hopped off of the bike and rapped frantically on a door Bruce could only guess was the emergency exit of The Red Herring. A lantern that matched the one up front hung beside it, flooding the ally with a bright blue light. The man who opened the door was built like a tank with a frightful scowl and a lazy eye and at first, he seemed angry as he glowered down at the two boys. Then he saw that each was bleeding profusely.

“That some kind of Halloween shit?” he asked suspiciously.

Jay shook his head, “No, we need help. I’m Justina’s son.”

That made an immediate impression and the man blinked in surprise, “You’re _Mom’s_ kid?”

Jay nodded and, after a moment of contemplation, the bouncer stood aside to let them in, saying, “Welcome to Methuselah’s.”

From the moment he’d opened the door, Bruce had gotten an idea of just how loud the music from within was, but he wasn’t prepared for the full volume of it as they stepped inside the dark interior of the premises. He could feel the bass bumping through his chest as the walls around him rattled and he wondered how it could have possibly sounded so quiet from the outside. The bouncer allowed him to bring his bike in, but gestured for him to leave it close to the door.

“Look, this ain’t a place for kids,” he warned as he led them down a hallway lit by multi-colored lights, “So…”

He trailed off, leaving Bruce with a million questions as to what ought to have followed that statement, but he soon found out as the dancefloor opened up before them. Neither Bruce nor Jay had ever been inside of a nightclub. The sight of bodies packed wall to wall within the confined space was a both a shock and a thrill and not least of all because, among the myriad of eccentric Halloween costumes, some of the patrons were very nearly nude. Shimmering disco balls of all sizes hung beside cheap paper pumpkin decorations from the ceiling and orange and purple string lights were draped on every surface. A smoke machine oozed from somewhere in the building and lasers made waves of green within the clouds. They could just make out a stage in the back where a punk girl with a pink mohawk danced as she sang along with the song blasting over the speakers.

A young man pushed his way through the crowd with a tray of orange and green Jell-O shots and waved when he spotted the bouncer, shouting just loud enough to hear over the music, “Cole!”

Bruce’s eyes fell adamantly to his feet, for although Cole tried to block him from their line of sight, he’d already seen everything there was to see of the young man as he approached. He was dressed as waiter, but with 90% less uniform than one would usually expect. Cole shook his head when offered a shot, gesturing to the boys, and the young man gave a shrill _“Ah!”_ of surprise at the sight of children. He tipped the tray sideways to cover his lower extremities, spilling Jell-O all across the floor, and glowered furiously at the bouncer. Cole leaned down to say something in his ear and shooed him away as he quickly led the boys around the dance floor and into a backroom beside the packed bar. He had to pull a rather resistant Jay inside by the arm, much to his disappointment.

Once Cole closed the door behind them and it was quiet enough to hear each other speak again, he apologized gruffly, “Sorry about that. No way around it.”

The backroom was a pleasant, albeit hectic, space and Bruce was reminded of Mom’s trailer back at the Freak Show. Everything seemed to be draped in colorful shawls and beads and a fancy, old fashioned couch and matching loveseat sat around an elegant table with a glass top dotted with damp coasters from the bar. Hanging on the far wall were two large flags, one striped in rainbow and the other in pink, blue, and white and beneath them were three vanity sets, each covered in an assortment of make-up, wigs, and hair products. Sitting at one of these vanities was a gender-ambiguous woman, staring at them in surprise. She wore a long, flowing wig of blonde hair and striking, dark make-up that was only half finished, but had no breasts beneath her black band tee and a strong, angular jaw.

“Cole,” she said, frowning, “what on _Earth_ are those?”

“Children,” he explained quickly, “Listen, Violet, they’re hurt. Can you grab the first aid kit? I sent Emilio to find Eve, but he’s probably high—I mean…” he gave an awkward cough, glancing at the boys, and finished hurriedly, “I’m just going to go help him look for her.”

“O-Okay, I suppose I could—” He saw himself out before she could finish and she huffed in annoyance before looking at Bruce and Jay, “Is that… a Jell-O shot?”

“Nope,” Jay lied briskly as he swallowed down the orange shot that he’d been hiding behind his back until Cole left.

Violet blinked her massive false lashes, unsure of how to respond, before saying, “Alright, come with me, you two.”

She gestured for them to follow her into the bathroom where they both were able to wash the dried and dripping blood from their skin before she helped them dress and bandage their wounds. Bruce was particularly concerned about the gash on Jay’s eyebrow and if it needed stitches, but Violet wasn’t too sure, deciding to put a butterfly bandage over it for the time being.

“Do you boys need me to call your parents?” she asked with concern, “You might need to go to a hospital.”

“No,” Jay insisted firmly, “We’ll be fine, really.”

Before she could respond, there was a knock at the door and someone entered, calling out, “Violet! _Vámonos!_ ”

“I’m back here, Adrian!”

Adrian was an effeminate boy with long brown hair pulled back into a bun and a pretty, clean shaven face. He was dressed as an “angel”, although the only indication of that were the two fluffy wings he wore upon his back. Otherwise, he was simply dressed in a revealing white vest, short shorts, and tall, heeled boots. He stumbled drunkenly, giggling at himself as the three of them came back into the dressing room.

“You’re missing all the fun, Vi, let’s—Oh,” he paused when he saw young boys that accompanied her.

“Yeah, _oh,_ ” Violet sighed, “Cole just dropped these two back here, barely said anything, and ran off to find Eve.”

“Awww,” Adrian crooned sympathetically, “You poor kids. What happened?”

“Our bike crashed,” Jay lied swiftly and Bruce nodded in agreeance.

“Well that’s not a fun way to spend Beggar’s Night,” Adrian sat down on the couch and beckoned for Bruce and Jay to sit on the loveseat.

As they did, he picked up Jay’s hand, peering at his chipping black nail polish, “You look like you need another coat, hun. You mind?”

“No, go for it,” Jay said and Adrian grinned, beckoning for Violet to grab him the case of nail polish on the vanity.

Bruce couldn’t help but notice how unusually wide Adrian’s pupils were as he cleaned off each of Jay’s fingers with nail polish remover and then began reapplying a fresh coat of black. He hummed cheerfully along with the music playing outside, his hands moving swift and precise, and when he’d finished, the only difference was he’d painted Jay’s ring fingers red instead of black.

“Wow, you’re a lot better at this than I am,” Jay complemented him as he blew on his nails to help them dry.

“It just takes practice,” Adrian laughed, then he gestured for Bruce to hold out his hands, “You next.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Bruce did so with a hesitant little smile, “I’ve never had my nails painted before.”

“Well there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? Do you want the same colors?”

Bruce nodded and soon he was doing the same as Jay, blowing on the fresh coat of paint and admiring it, and Adrian clapped with excitement when he told him that he liked it. His bubbly energy was contagious and Bruce was grateful for it. The events of that evening had been burning odd little holes in his mind and every now and again he had to fight to keep the panic from rising up in his chest. Images kept coming back to him that made his hands sweat and his heart race and any distraction from it was a relief.

“Glad I could expose you to something new,” said Adrian, looking proud of himself, and then asking, “How long have you guys been together?”

“Uh, two days, I guess?” Bruce answered, glancing at Jay, who turned very red and diverted his gaze to his lap to Bruce’s confusion.

“Awww,” Adrian crooned, “ _So_ cute.”

There was a knock at the door just then and the first person that entered was larger than life. Tall and imposing, he was a ferociously fabulous Drag Queen dressed impeccably as Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, but his expression was rather serious as he was followed by none other than Mom herself and John, both of whom looked extremely concerned. The moment her eyes laid upon Jay, Mom rushed over and fell to her knees before the loveseat, embracing him as Eve ushered both Adrian and Violet out of the room with her.

“Mom,” Jay gasped in surprise, “H-How did you—?”

“Eve called me, of course.”

When Mom pulled back from Jay, she looked at him with withering intensity, and said, “I have eyes all over this city, boy, now you tell me _right_ now: _Why_ are the cops after you?”

Jay and Bruce exchanged a knowing look, accepting that they’d been caught, and then together they told the truth of what had happened that night. Most of it, anyway. Bruce noted how Jay still refused to mention that they were hunting for his parent’s killer. Instead, he made it sound as if they’d just been out exploring the park when they came upon Bill.

“They destroyed the tent town?” Mom asked, frowning.

“And then we accidentally came across this body,” said Bruce, “W-Well we _thought_ it was body anyway. A-And we… we…”

But he trailed off, his breath catching in his chest as the horror he’d felt when he’d first seen the drunken man came vividly back to him. Mom peered at him closely, her brow furrowing deeper with concern the longer she looked, until she reached out and took his hand in her own. Slowly, the anxiety began to ebb away and he finished telling her about their plan to return to the bodega and how they’d come upon the cops accosting Bill.

“It was _fucked_ , Mom,” Jay said, scowling, “You would’ve done the same.”

“There was so much blood,” Bruce muttered quietly, “His face was _covered_ in blood.”

“Jesus,” said John in shock.

Mom ran her hands over her face, taking a moment to compose herself after hearing the whole story. Then she wrapped her arms around both boys, holding them tightly, and they held her in return. Something happened then that surprised Bruce: a deep calmness that he hadn’t felt in a very long time began to sink into his body and into his very bones.

“You boys were very brave, protecting Bill,” she said softly to them, “Stupid. But brave.”

She stroked Bruce’s hair and suddenly, freed from the constant bonds of control he’d crafted for himself over the past year, he could feel tears dripping freely down his face. He didn’t know why it happened, but inside he felt ready to burst. When Mom pulled away and saw this, she brought a hand gently to his cheek and brushed a tear away with her thumb.

“Something else is hurting you, isn’t it?” she asked knowingly, “Something deeper. What is it, love? You can tell me.”

Bruce struggled to speak for a moment before he finally choked it out, “The police aren’t looking for him anymore. The man who killed my parents.”

Mom and John were both caught off guard by this and stared at him in surprise. But he didn’t wait for them to respond, unable to keep it to himself any longer. It was the first time he’d told anyone and it felt like a dam inside of him had broken, the words spilling out in a painful deluge as he continued.

“They stopped a long time ago actually,” he sniffled thickly, “I heard my godmother say so _months_ ago, but she didn’t know I was there at the time. She said Commissioner Loeb was a coward and that she _knew_ they’d stopped looking for him and she _knew_ something was wrong with the investigation.”

“And I’ve been telling myself this whole time… that she must have been wrong. That she must have made a mistake and that they would never do that because it’s their _job_ to _help_ people. But I… I was wrong.”

Mom held his hands tightly in her own, looking up at him with sorrowful eyes, “I’m so sorry, Bruce.”

His gaze met hers as he said quietly, “I just miss my family…”

“I know, baby,” she hugged him again, “I know how you feel. We all know what it’s like to lose family. It’s a very dark place to be.”

John and Jay nodded somberly and Bruce asked, “What happened?”

“Oh,” Mom hesitated, “I don’t know if you—”

“I do. I want to hear,” Bruce implored her, “I don’t want to be alone. Please.”

Mom paused for a long moment before saying, “I lost my wife, many years ago. She was murdered too. Not for anything she’d done, of course. She and I, well… we weren’t born the women we became. We were born like you, Bruce. Boyhood just never suited us. And one night a man decided that was reason enough to shoot her dead.”

She bowed her head, saying softly, “She was my whole world.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce consoled her, “Did… Did they catch him?”

“No,” Her lip curled, but there was no humor in her smile, “I told the police who he was and who he worked for and… nothing happened. No one cares when someone like us dies.”

“I care,” whispered Bruce.

John set a hand kindly on Mom’s shoulder before saying, “My brother was the only family I ever really had. Mom found us at a very… difficult time and helped us get our lives back together.”

They shared a meaningful smile for a moment before he continued, “But… he resented me for things that were out of my control and his ambition turned him into a different person. Our relationship began to splinter. Until eventually he said he never wanted to see me again and left us. My own brother…”

He took a deep breath and Mom placed her hand over his, giving it a tight squeeze, “I would have died then, if Mom hadn’t been there for me. She helped me find a reason to keep living and a _new_ family to call my own.”

“And Jay,” Mom reached out to the smaller boy, brushing his messy hair back from his face, “My baby.”

Jay was quiet, his eyebrows knitted together with emotion, and she kissed his forehead before saying to Bruce, “When you lose family, people like to say it’ll get easier, but the truth is, it doesn’t. Sometimes it gets harder. But you’ve got to _fight_ it. Every day. Every _single_ day, you fight. It doesn’t get easier, but you get stronger. And on the days that you’re too weak to fight, the family you _choose_ will carry you.”

“The family you choose,” Bruce repeated softly.

After a moment of silence, he asked with a haunted look in his eye, “When the police wouldn’t help… did you go after him yourself? Did you kill him?”

Mom inhaled slowly through her nose, her eyes sharp as she looked at Bruce and she responded carefully, “That would have been a mercy, love. Sometimes the best thing we can do is to allow our enemies to _live_ with the choices they’ve made.”

Then she and John recited in tandem, as though from poetry or prayer, “Blessed are those with the Gift of Death.”

**3**

As John drove them home, Bruce peered up at the night sky out of the window in the backseat. He was filled with a strange feeling that he couldn’t quite identify, though not unpleasantly so. He felt light somehow, as though he’d been carrying something exceedingly heavy for a long time and had finally been permitted to put it down. Jay was laying against his shoulder, his eyes closed, and Bruce smiled down at him.

The Freak Show was just about ready to close as they pulled around to the back of the building and Mom asked them, “Would you boys do me a favor and go check on Jonesy? She should be getting the fireworks ready. But then come back to the trailer. I’ve got something for you, Bruce.”

Bruce was surprised at this and when he looked at Jay, the other boy grinned knowingly and winked at him. They set off through the sprawling collection of trailers that would soon be packed with all the members of the show once they’d finished closing up inside. Jay kicked a crumpled beer can along with them as they walked.

“If the show is closing,” Bruce inquired, “why are there going to be fireworks?”

“Oh, they’re not for the customers,” Jay laughed, “They’re just for us. Jonesy used to make them for a living before she lost her arm.”

“Seriously? Was it because of…?”

“Nope, completely unrelated accident. Everyone always assumes she blew it off because she’s a total maniac,” Jay sniggered, “but she’s actually pretty nuts about safety. That’s why she won’t let me near them ‘until I’m older’.”

Across the empty space that stretched out into the darkness beyond the cluster of trailers, a small woman was eagerly setting up rows of brightly colored fireworks. As they got closer, Bruce could see she wore a large pair of safety goggles and thick brown gloves. Her hair was a frizzy mess atop her head and her shabby jean overalls were stained with paint and black soot.

Jay waved a hand and called out to her, “Jonesy!”

She halted in her tracks, head snapping to the side to look at them, and then rushed over, shouting, “Woah, woah, woah! That’s close enough!”

The boys stalled as she jogged up to meet them, her wide eyes moving with a manic energy in their sockets. She spoke with a heavy lisp as she said breathlessly, “I don’t need a repeat of last time.”

“I said I was sorry,” Jay offered with a big guilty smile that didn’t help.

“Yeah, yeah,” she scoffed, looking mildly amused and putting her hands on her hips, “How can I help you guys?”

“Mom just wanted us to make sure everything was okay,” said Bruce with a smile.

“Oh, it’s gonna be great,” Jonesy looked like mad scientist as she grinned broadly, “Tell her it should only be about another thirty minutes or so before I start popping them off.”

“Did you make the smiley face ones again?” Jay asked.

She nodded and rustled his hair energetically, “Yep! Just for you, you little punk. Now scram. No kids allowed.”

On the way back to Mom’s trailer, Bruce tried to pry clues about what awaited them out of Jay, but he refused to budge, insisting it would ruin the surprise. The lights on the trailer gave off a warm, welcoming glow and it felt bright and cheery despite the fact that Giovanni was standing outside. He looked exceedingly strange with a playful little party hat perched atop his head instead of his bowler hat, but it certainly helped to ease the discomfort of his presence. As they walked up, he silently handed the boys each a party hat of their own, his frightful face expressionless as ever.

“What’s this for?” Bruce asked Jay as he put it on.

But Jay just grinned as he stood to the side and opened the door. With a series of loud pops, Bruce was showered with colorful streamers and glitter as Mom, John, and Jay all shouted, “Happy Birthday!”

Bruce couldn’t help but laugh, holding his arms out as the streamers covered him like a mummy, and he said, “But it’s not my birthday.”

“It is now,” Jay smirked, pulling him back from the door as Mom strolled out with a cake in the shape of a goofy clown face and lit with flickering candles.

“Freak Show tradition,” explained John as he followed with paper plates and utensils, “If you’ve had an exceptionally shit night, you get a birthday party.”

It was the strangest little party he had ever experienced. The four of them sat around the picnic table outside, except Giovanni who remained standing nearby, and sang a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday” to Bruce before beckoning him to blow out the candles. He sucked in a deep breath and took out all of the little flames in one go to cheers and applause, his expression fixed into the biggest smile he’d worn all year.

“Thanks, you guys,” he said, looking around at them all.

“There’s one sure fire way to keep the blues at bay, baby,” responded Mom kindly as the first firework popped and flashed in the sky, “Smile like you mean it.”

At John’s suggestion, the boys climbed on top of the trailer to watch the fireworks, utilizing a ladder on the back. Together, they sat cross legged at the front with plates of cake handed up to them by Mom. As he thanked her, Bruce noticed for the first time, a distinct tattoo on her shoulder depicting a heart wrapped in a tattered banner that read “MOM” and he wondered if that was where she’d gotten her nickname. But he didn’t have much time to think about it as fireworks began shooting up at regular intervals. They filled the sky with crackling showers of color and sound and Bruce watched them with all the mesmerized awe of childhood.

After a time, he felt a hand cover his own, tentatively holding it. He glanced down in surprise, but didn’t pull away. Then he looked at Jay, but the other boy was staring up at the sky and it was difficult to make out his expression in the dark.

“Not afraid of fireworks, are you?” Bruce joked lightly after a moment.

“Oh, terrified,” Jay responded and he could hear the amusement in his voice as a cluster of colorful smiley faces burst up above.


	10. Fear and Love (CW: Sexual Content/Drug Use/Suicide)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jay finds a controversial way to help Bruce face his fears and as they bond, the feelings they have for one another come to a climax; Four months earlier, Dr. Jonathan Crane saves a man attempting to commit suicide on Christmas Eve and reluctantly takes him into his care, but as the night presses on sinister events unfold._
> 
> ==========
> 
> Excerpt:
> 
> "Their eyes met and they froze there, gazing as though seeing one another for the first time. History, love, and loss flowed freely between them with an electric current that compelled magnetism and it could no longer go unnoticed. Suddenly, Bruce leaned down and pressed his lips to the other’s and at first, Jay was too shocked to respond. Bruce pulled back, embarrassed by his own boldness and worried he’d acted too brashly, but after he had time to get his bearings, Jay returned the kiss with a deep and demanding thirst."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning and General Disclaimer:**   
>  _This chapter contains graphic depictions of consensual sexual acts, a brief discussion of previous experiences with dubious consent/sexual violence, graphic bloody violence, a failed suicide attempt, discussions of suicide and trauma, drug use with and without consent and dangerous, unsafe decisions made under the influence of drugs._
> 
> _I think it should go without saying, but don't get tattoos or steal things on drugs. It's not cool and extremely stupid. Make sure you always obtain sincere consent from all partners during sexual acts, practice safe sex, all that good shit._
> 
> _Also giving others drugs without their consent in reality is a sure fire way to ensure someone has a horrible trip/roll/high/whatever. This is literally just a fictional story, please don't be a moron and do any of this shit or think I'm condoning other people doing it. I ain't got time for that level of stupidity._
> 
> ==========
> 
> From the Soundtrack:  
>   
> Scene 2: Fucked Up in Gotham Square  
> "EYES" by Cold Hart & YAWNS ft. Rawska  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQV_hkQeRE0&list=PLmn0lxfD9DrkhahMg6AWe1ETzJMWFd50Y&index=14)
> 
> Scene 2: Return to Crime Alley  
> "Slow Life" by Of Monsters and Men (Ironically featuring Tomas Lemarquis, the actor whom Jay's appearance is inspired by, in the video)  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQV_hkQeRE0&list=PLmn0lxfD9DrkhahMg6AWe1ETzJMWFd50Y&index=14)
> 
> Scene 3: Wayne Manor  
> "Toxic" by Britney Spears, epically covered by 2WEI  
> [Click Me For Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yL7IRngzIdk&list=PLmn0lxfD9DrkhahMg6AWe1ETzJMWFd50Y&index=12)
> 
> ==========
> 
> Concept Art of Jay/Joker:  
>   
>   
>   
> Concept Art of Dr. Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow (Fun Facts: His appearance is heavily inspired by the actor Hugh Laurie):  
> [](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-Dr-Jonathan-Crane-863715387)   
> [](https://img1.looper.com/img/gallery/why-hugh-laurie-was-never-the-same-after-house/intro-1567096480.jpg)   
> Click on any of the images to go to the full artwork

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

PunkyBlooze

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Dumpster-Fire-Colored-Joker-Concept-Art-858235815) **

_All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze._

_This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen._

_For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

**Find My Art (18+ ONLY):**  
DeviantArt: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze)  
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* * *

###  **Chapter 5: Fear and Love**

**1**

Bruce watched with apprehension as the pancake stuck to his ceiling slowly began to peel away until it finally fell with a dull _splat_ onto the table before him. He and Jay stared at it together for a prolonged moment of silence.

“Well, _usually_ I can do it on the first try,” said Jay, pouring more batter into the frying pan.

It sizzled and popped pleasantly, filling the air with a sweet, tantalizing scent. Bruce leaned back in one of the two chairs that sat about the small, circular table in the “kitchen” area of his studio apartment and idly watched Jay cook. Whatever diminutive counter space he had was currently occupied by the ingredients they had grabbed from the nearest convenience store.

“I can’t believe you’re almost thirty years old,” Jay scoffed, “and you don’t know how to make pancakes.”

“Says the guy who’s almost thirty and still shoplifting for kicks,” countered Bruce with a smirk.

Jay groaned, “And I would’ve gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for a certain meddling bootlicker who can’t handle the concept of _free_ syrup.”

“I am _literally_ a billionaire.”

“So? You want a medal for winning Capitalism or something?”

Bruce opted not to respond to this as Jay prepared once more to toss the pancake, preferring not to end up with another one on the ceiling. He lifted the pan off the stove, shook the cake loose, and then counted down from three before flicking his wrist sharply. The pancake made a swift arc in the air before landing right back on the pan with a soft hiss, eliciting a cheer of victory from both men.

“And _that_ ,” Jay grinned over his shoulder at Bruce, “is the full extent of my cooking skills. It’s all downhill from here.”

“I’m sure you’ll make a terrible wife someday,” Bruce joked, pleased that he could make him laugh.

Soon there were two plates of buttery pancakes drenched in syrup sitting before them and Jay declared, “It may not be up to Mom’s standards, but it’s the best I can do.”

Bruce lifted his glass, “To exceptionally shit nights.”

“And old friends to spend them with,” added Jay, lifting his own in cheers.

They dug into the pancakes, neither bothered by the fact that they were eating breakfast food so late at night. Bruce’s eyes were still a bit red, but his stomach was finally relaxed enough to eat again and it was a relief to no longer be in pain. Jay had sat with him for quite some time after he'd come home from the Gala, patiently listening to him open up about the troubles he’d been experiencing and comforting him. It had been extremely cathartic, despite the fact that Jay also seemed to make it a personal mission to find out all the various ways he could best annoy him.

“Ah-ah,” Bruce said sternly as he attempted to light up a cigarette at the table, “Not in here. You want to smoke, you go outside.”

Jay frowned in annoyance, “Aw, come on, I just cooked.”

“You want a medal or something?”

“No, I want a cigarette.”

“It _stinks_.”

“ _You_ stink.”

“Too bad. My house, my rules.”

Jay lit the cigarette anyway and blew the smoke right at him, “I think I know what your problem is, Bruce.”

“Oh, you do?” he reached over and snatched it right out of his mouth, despite Jay’s attempts to dodge him.

“Yeah, you’re a _control freak_.”

Bruce looked him right in the eye as he leaned back, putting it out in the sink, “Or maybe _you’re_ just a loose cannon.”

“Hang on, hear me out,” protested Jay, pointing a forkful of pancake at him, “I’ve actually been thinking a lot about this. You told me that you’ve been having flashbacks to the fucked-up things you’ve seen, especially as a kid, right?”

“Yeah, so?” Bruce answered carefully through a mouthful of food.

“Well with what happened to your parents and how it catapulted your life into chaos, plus what _we_ went through just a year afterwards, wouldn’t you say it makes sense that you’d grow up to be a person who prefers to have control of things?”

“I… suppose…”

“So maybe _that’s_ what your greatest fear has become: Losing control,” Jay finished with a snap of his fingers, “But now that pathological _need_ for control is fucking you because you can’t _possibly_ control _everything_ in your life and the tighter you try to hold onto it, the more it hurts. That’s why you push people away too. Because other people are chaotic and unpredictable and that _scares_ you.”

Bruce was quiet for a long moment, his eyebrows knitting together as he mulled the idea over, “I… I never thought about it that way…”

“Therapy,” Jay scoffed, “Who needs fuckin’ therapy? I just solved your emotional trauma in like, what, five minutes?”

But Bruce didn’t laugh this time, instead asking, “But what am I supposed to _do_ with that? How am I supposed to fix it?”

“Mom always said that the best way to overcome your fears was by facing them head on. If you’re afraid of heights, ride roller coasters. If you’re afraid of open water, go jump in the ocean.”

“So, what do I do about control?”

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” Jay peered up at Bruce with a curious expression, “and I think you should do drugs with me.”

Bruce’s eyes boggled, “ _What?_ ”

“I really, _really_ think it would be good for you,” Jay insisted as Bruce scoffed and shook his head, “You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, if you’d just—”

“No way, I don’t do drugs.”

Jay gave him a reproachful look, “I’ve seen your prescription bottles. I know what you’re taking.”

“That’s… different.”

“Come _on_ , Bruce,” Jay begged, “I promise it’ll be a good way to face your fears _and_ you’ll have a good time. Can I get a maybe, at least?”

Bruce rolled his eyes as he picked at the last of his pancakes, “Fine. _Maybe._ ”

“Great! Now, uh… promise me you won’t get angry.”

Bruce groaned, pressing his fingers to his eyes, “Oh, I’m already livid.”

“I’m serious! I really have to tell you something, but you’ve _got_ to promise _._ ”

Bruce swallowed his last bite and looked suspiciously from his plate to Jay, frowning, “I swear to god, Jay, if you put something in my food, I—”

“No, no, no!” Jay shook his head and his hands, “What do you take me for? Some asshole with no respect for your bodily autonomy and consent?”

Bruce sighed, “Fine. I promise I won’t get mad.”

“Pinky promise?”

“What are we, twelve-year-old girls?”

“I _do_ know every word to Britney Spears' ‘Toxic’.”

“Oh my god,” Bruce linked his pinky with Jay’s, “I _pinky fucking promise._ Now, out with it.”

Jay bit his lip, looking nervous, “First, I just want you to know that I care about you and that everything’s going to be alright.”

“O…kay?” Bruce felt his apprehension rising again.

“That being said… I absolutely drugged the food.”

**2**

It was Friday night and Gotham Square was packed with people coming and going beneath the endless lights of commerce. Bars and clubs were overflowing despite the persistent chill in the air and street vendors peddled everything from food and music to performative art and jewelry. It had been an extremely long time since Bruce had actually walked among his fellow Gothamites in the Square. Typically, he watched it from above, perched in dark places while peering through the lenses of his cowl, and only ever with the goal of locating a suspect. It was strange to be there without a mission.

Jay held his hand so they wouldn’t get separated as he led him through the crowded streets, occasionally glancing back with a sly smile on his face. Bruce was still clothed the fine suit that he’d worn to the Gala that evening, but he’d swapped his vest out for a coat. Ahead, Jay’s shoulders were draped in a black jacket strewn with spikes and metal studs and sewn on the back was a large patch depicting the profile of a screaming skull with a mohawk. He’d taken the liberty of painting the skull like a clown and above it, five individual patches spelled out “JOKER”. 

Beneath his usual mess of wild green hair, Jay’s eyelids were brushed with red and black eyeshadow and ringed in black liner. Bruce could see how large his pupils had become, the black holes practically swallowing the entirety of his irises, and he wondered if his own eyes looked like that as well. If so, he imagined anybody he looked at would instantly know that he was high as a kite and somehow, _somehow,_ he found that hilarious.

He couldn’t help but smile up at the bright lights and screens and advertisements that cluttered the stretch of Gotham Square and all the jubilant, excited people that hurried passed them. It felt like he’d stepped into a movie that he’d watched a thousand times and now suddenly got to be a part of. The experience was complex; He felt excited, yet calm, under-the-influence, yet entirely cognizant. It was nothing at all like he’d imagined it would be.

“Where are we going?” Bruce asked, pulling Jay closer so he could hear him over the chatter.

“Wherever you want,” he answered with a grin, gesturing around at the city, “How do you feel, baby?”

“Good. _Really_ good. This is… unreal.”

They laughed together and Jay got in a well-deserved “I told you so”, much to his own satisfaction. Bruce knew the city like the back of his hand and yet suddenly, it all seemed so new. His eyes drank it in with all the lust of a tourist and he was filled with a deep love and admiration of it. Together, they wandered through a Ripley’s Believe It or Not Odditorium and traversed the psychedelic acid trip of a neon forest mirror maze like drunken teens. They loitered on the steps of Gotham University, Jay chain smoking cigarettes as he regaled Bruce with stories of touring across Europe with the Freak Show. They even made into Robinson Park, passing by the new Japanese Garden, which was still under construction.

Once they came out the other side, Jay pulled Bruce into a shady little piercing and tattoo shop, saying in his ear, “Let me make some bad choices for you.”

When they left, Bruce had a small silver stud through the cartilage of his left ear and Jay had the giddy expression of someone who’d just gotten away with something dubious as he took Bruce’s hand and pulled him hurriedly away from the shop. They hailed a taxi, heading from midtown to downtown, and when Bruce asked again where they were headed, Jay insisted it was a secret.

It wasn’t a very easy secret to keep however and even as they walked closer to it, Bruce laughed, “Seriously?”

“Well, I figured it would be the easiest way to get a good view of the city from above,” responded Jay as they approached Wayne Tower, “And they can’t kick us out on account of you owning it.”

“I dunno, Jay,” he said with some hesitation, “I’m high.”

“What are they gonna do? Fire you?”

They looked at each other before simultaneously bursting with laughter and heading inside. Bruce was surprised at his own lack of concern or apprehension as they approached the front desk. Upon request, he showed the young security guard his driver’s license and the boy’s eyes boggled in disbelief, looking between him and the name on the card.

“M-Mr. Wayne,” he gasped.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Jay crooned, leaning on the desk, “So be a doll and let us in, would you?”

The guard swiftly issued Bruce an executive keycard and hit the button to unlock the door to the left. Once they had entered the foyer, Bruce smirked down at Jay, asking, “Enjoying yourself?”

“Hey, you get that power trip whenever you want it,” Jay sniggered as he did a 360, peering around at the elegant interior and whistling, “This place is bougie as fuck.”

“If you think _this_ is impressive, you should see the manor.”

“That should be our _last_ stop of the night,” Jay suggested, “Now where is that elevator?”

“I think it’s this way.”

“You _think_?”

Bruce shrugged as they wandered about, “I haven’t been in here in… three years? Maybe longer.”

“The sheer _breadth_ of your privilege is disgusting, Bruce,” groaned Jay with a roll of his eyes before he pointed and exclaimed, “Ooh! There it is!”

The elevator took them to the top floor, all the while giving them a gorgeous view of the city out of the windows that followed the shaft all the way up. The floor was deserted and, using the keycard the security guard had given them, they began poking through the various rooms until they found the perfect one: a large, executive suite, most likely used for board meetings, with an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows facing the enormous, glittering expanse of Gotham. They each pulled up a seat at the long table that took up the vast majority of the room and stared out at the city.

“This was a good idea,” Bruce said softly.

“You know what _else_ was a good idea?” asked Jay as he pulled something out of his drawstring bag.

“Oh _no_.”

“Oh _yes._ ”

Jay was grinning at him with a devilish glint in his eye as he held up a purple tattoo gun, “Remember what I said about bad choices?”

“I _knew_ you stole something from that shop,” groaned Bruce, “You had that stupid _look_ on your face _._ ”

Jay practically giggled, though the sound was sinister in nature, “It’ll just be a little one, I promise.”

“Do I at least get to pick _where_?”

“No,” Jay said as he prepped the gun, “Now hold out your hand.”

“This feels like coercion,” responded Bruce, though he did as he was told.

“Oh, boo-hoo. _Cancel me,_ why don’t you?”

But Bruce’s eyes lit up just then and he suggested, “Hang on. If I let you do this, then you have to do the same.”

“What?” Jay looked up at him in surprise.

“You have to let me tattoo you. I get to pick where and what.”

“Ah,” Jay fidgeted, thinking for a moment before asking, “Have you ever even held a tattoo gun before?”

Bruce shook his head, “Never.”

Jay bit his lip, his brow furrowed, but then he slowly smiled and said, “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

He wouldn’t let Bruce look as he began to work on the first digit of the ring finger on his left hand. First, he drew out the design with a thin blue marker and then he began tracing over it with the gun. His only explanation for his choice was that if Bruce ever needed to hide it, a ring would do the job. The pain was sharper than Bruce expected, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d suffered far worse as Batman, after all.

“I feel like… this isn’t something that should be happening while we’re on drugs,” Bruce pondered idly as the other worked.

“Oh, absolutely not,” responded Jay, “This is a horrible, _horrible_ idea. Don’t do this at home, kids.”

“Wow, I feel so _safe_ now,” crooned Bruce sarcastically.

“Thanks, I do my best.”

It was also over far quicker than Bruce expected and when he was finally permitted to look down, he found a “J” tattooed on his ring finger in an elegant font. He rolled his eyes and laughed, “Of _course_ that’s what you picked.”

“Your turn,” said Jay as he carefully placed a bandage over the reddened skin.

Bruce pondered before demanding, “Give me your hand.”

Jay actually looked a little apprehensive as he did so, which was deeply satisfying for Bruce, who got to rub it in his face as he drew out his design. He was extremely careful as Jay coached him through what to do with the gun and as the thrusting needle began to drag across his skin, Jay inhaled sharply. Bruce kept his eyes on his work for the most part, moving slowly and replicating the motions that Jay had made while tattooing him, but he could hear the other’s breath and the new sounds he now made.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Bruce pondered aloud, “I’d say you were enjoying this.”

“It’s a good kind of pain,” sighed Jay, his face flush with color.

“I thought you were scared.”

“Fear is life’s spice, Bruce. It makes everything better.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, glancing up at him, “You sound like a masochist.”

“Says the sadist,” countered Jay with a smirk, “By the way, the safe word is ‘Pennywise’.”

“Tch,” Bruce scoffed, eyes lowering once again.

Outside, the lights of Gotham shone like hundreds of stars pulled down from the sky and bottled in so many dusty lamps. It breathed a very life of its own and its eyes watched them, cold and silent from afar. Sometime later, Bruce and Jay gazed out at it as the elevator brought them back down to the ground floor. Bruce placed a bandage over the rudimentary “B” now tattooed on Jay’s finger as the other man pulled a little baggy out of his pocket with his free hand. Inside was a collection of clear capsules filled with powder.

“Time to celebrate,” he said, popping one in his mouth before pulling out a second, “Say ‘ah’.”

“What are we celebrating?” asked Bruce, opening his mouth so Jay could place the pill on his tongue, “Bad choices?”

Jay held his hand up and motioned for Bruce to do the same, their matching bandages silhouetted in the light of the city, “Our marriage.”

“Oh, fuck,” Bruce groaned.

Jay set his chin on Bruce’s shoulder, grinning mischievously, “ _Wifey._ ”

“What on _Earth_ makes you think _I’d_ be the wife?” Bruce snorted, shrugging him off brutishly as he laughed.

“I dunno, something about you just _screams_ ‘strong, independent woman’,” mused Jay, before receiving a rather sharp shove that nearly knocked him over.

The young guard bid them goodnight as they stepped outside and Bruce was suddenly reminded of the presence of cameras all over the building. Perhaps now there was security footage of he and Jay tattooing each other on the top floor. Perhaps the guard had watched them. He felt the uncomfortable clench of embarrassment in his gut, but also a strange thrill. Though his life as Batman was full of danger and excitement, his life as Bruce Wayne had become very quiet and predictable. It was nice to feel daring in his own skin.

An unexpected surprise awaited them as Jay gestured grandly to the luxurious black stretch limousine awaiting them out front and as Bruce’s mouth fell open, he said incredulously, “I thought you said you were calling an _uber_.”

“Oh _please,_ ” responded Jay, “Like I’d actually call an _uber_ with a _billionaire’s_ debit card in my hand. I picked the most expensive one.”

As he ducked inside, the interior of the limo made Bruce’s eyes widen and he gazed about at all the vibrant neon lights, the swerving curvature of the seats, and the bar with bottles of liquor on ice and fresh crystal glasses. It was far more space than needed for only two people. He sat down, stretching his arms across the back of the seat as Jay plucked two bottles of water from one of the buckets of ice, which appeared bright blue under the black lights.

“Well,” Bruce commented, looking at him smugly, “since you’ve lied to me about frivolously spending my money, shouldn’t that make _you_ the wife?”

“ _That_ is sexist,” said Jay matter-of-factly as he tossed him a water bottle, “I’ll have you know, I lied to you about frivolously spending your money because I am a liar and a scoundrel, _not_ because I’m the wife.”

“Fair enough,” Bruce caught the water bottle and guzzled down the entire thing, “Where are we heading now?”

“Round One was about letting go of control, but Round Two,” Jay paused ominously, looking up at him, “will be about confronting _fear._ We’re going to go somewhere you haven’t been in a very long time, despite the fact that you deliberately picked an apartment less than ten minutes away from it.”

“Playing therapist again?” asked Bruce, joking despite the nervousness that he felt.

Jay snatched up a bottle of whiskey and took a swig, “You can start paying me any time you’d like.”

The limousine drove them away from Downtown Gotham, up through the Narrows to Midtown, and back towards Bruce’s apartment in Burnley. But instead of stopping there, it continued on, heading into Park Row. The uncomfortable feeling in Bruce’s stomach got worse as he realized where they were going, but part of him was curious and whispered to him, urging him not to back down. He was very aware that that part wouldn’t have existed if he was sober. His anxiety would have silenced all desire to confront his trauma so directly, but in this strange new state, he almost felt like he could do it. As the second pill began to take effect in earnest, he yearned to step out of his old skin, his old haunted self, and find himself made anew from the ashes of the past.

Jay sensed this conflict in him and for a while, he let him sit quietly and didn’t pester him. When the limousine finally pulled up to the Monarch Theater they got out in silence and as it drove away, they were consumed by it. Bruce breathed deeply as he gazed up at the horribly dilapidated building. It looked even worse than it had when his parents had begun the renovation project. Beside it, a cold wind whistled through the dark alley. He approached it slowly, as though it were some fearsome beast, but as he stood before the mouth, he felt something entirely at odds with what he’d expected.

As he walked down the alleyway, it felt familiar and sad, like walking into a house in which you used to live, but that was now empty. Shockingly, it was almost the same sensation as entering Wayne Manor. It was intimate, deeply intimate, and full of melancholy and longing. He stretched out a hand, fingers brushing against the cool brick wall as he reached the battered emergency exit, which had been boarded shut with a large padlock. Looking to the left, he saw that the portrait of his parents that had been spray painted on the adjacent building had been painted over and he felt the familiar sting of loss in his heart.

Once again, he stood in the very spot he’d been when his parents had been gruesomely murdered before his eyes, but no images of horror or gore came flashing, unbidden, into his mind’s eye. No terror or guilt or anxiety wracked his body. He was calm, infinitely calm, as he had been all night. His hands did not shake, his heart did not flutter, and the sorrow he felt, fathomless and unyielding as it ever was, for once did not frighten him. A tear fell from his eye, but he felt no shame and let it roll down his cheek unhindered. Slowly, he knelt down and then lay there upon the concrete, hands folded on his stomach, and gazed up at the narrow strip of starlight between the rooftops. Time and space seemed to fade away as he closed his eyes and allowed himself to float, awash in his own emotion. He breathed slow and steady and feared nothing and no one.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid there before he returned to his own body, but when he opened his eyes Jay was lying beside him, quietly humming “Happy Birthday”. Bruce reached down and laced his fingers with Jay’s, holding his hand as they watched the night sky together.

“Are you okay?” asked Jay, looking at him.

Bruce didn’t answer right away, thinking about it first before saying slowly, honestly, “Yeah… Yeah, I’m okay.”

He turned his head to face Jay and added, “Thank you.”

Jay’s face turned a shade redder at his serious tone and he moved to prop himself up on his elbows, mumbling, “No problem.”

“Jay,” said Bruce, sitting up as well, “Tell me what happened to Mom.”

He visibly tensed and folded his arms across his knees, looking away, “I told you already.”

“Jay…”

He was quiet for a long time, but eventually he relented and said, “She… She lost her mind. At the end…”

Bruce blinked, not expecting this, “What do you mean?”

“She, ah… Well she thought people were after her, you know? She saw enemies everywhere. We tore her trailer apart every week looking for cameras and bugs that she’d convinced herself were there just to try to help her calm down. It was genetic. Her own mom had the same thing happen at the same age.”

“And um…” Jay cleared his throat, his eyebrows knitted tightly together, “She started suspecting everyone in the Show too. Started alienating people, picking fights, making accusations. She became violent. The Show couldn’t go on with her like that and the whole operation just…”

He put his hands up in surrender, “There weren’t many left of the original crew then. Even John wanted out. He was about to get married—he already had a baby… and Jaxon was… he…”

Bruce wrapped an arm around Jay’s shoulders as he gathered himself and continued, “It was like… she’d been possessed. It ate her mind and took her body for a joy ride while the rest of us could only watch. We were helpless. And then…”

He sighed and laughed in a tortured sort of way, “Well it all got really fucked up. I don’t like thinking about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said quietly, “I shouldn’t have pushed you into telling me.”

“It’s fine,” Jay assured him, “I went poking around in your past, it’s only fair if you get to do the same to mine, I guess.”

Silence fell between them and for a time they just allowed each other to recover from the weight of the conversation. Jay took another swig from the whiskey bottle he’d brought with him from the limo and offered it to Bruce, who did the same.

“Hey,” said Bruce, in an attempt to lighten the mood, “I actually just thought of something I’ve always wanted to ask you about the Freak Show.”

“What?” asked Jay, perking up a bit at his jovial tone.

“How come everyone’s name started with a ‘J’ or with the “Juh” sound? Justina, John, Jaxon, Giovanni—That _can’t_ be coincidence.”

Jay gave a genuine laugh at that, “Well, you’re correct, it’s not a coincidence.”

“A lot of people in the Freak Show came from pretty messed up circumstances and the Show was a way for them to become someone new. Mom believed picking a new name was a good way to help you change yourself, whether it was a stage name or your legal name. Picking one that began with a ‘J’ was just a joke that caught on.”

“You mean, you picked your own name too?” Bruce asked in surprise.

Jay nodded, smiling a little to himself, “Yeah, I went through about a million of them. I was ‘Jack’ for a while, then ‘Jeremiah’, and a bunch of others. Nothing felt right.”

“So, why’d you pick ‘Jay’?”

“Uh,” Jay turned a bit red and averted his eyes, “it’s actually kind of embarrassing.”

“What? You can tell me,” Bruce insisted light-heartedly, “I promise I won’t laugh. Much.”

Jay ran a hand through his eclectic mess of hair and swallowed nervously before saying, “I picked it because… it was the name _you_ knew me as.”

Their eyes met and they froze there, gazing as though seeing one another for the first time. History, love, and loss flowed freely between them with an electric current that compelled magnetism and it could no longer go unnoticed. Suddenly, Bruce leaned down and pressed his lips to the other’s and at first, Jay was too shocked to respond. Bruce pulled back, embarrassed by his own boldness and worried he’d acted too brashly, but after he had time to get his bearings, Jay returned the kiss with a deep and demanding thirst. He moved atop Bruce, straddling his hips, and held his face in his hands as their mouths melded together. Bruce could feel the warm metal of the piercing on Jay’s tongue as it coaxed his own into action. Gripping the smaller man’s waist, he pulled him lower to grind up against him and Jay let out a soft hiss. His eyes flickered up to meet Bruce’s as his fingers curled about the heavy chain looped around Jay’s pants and used it to lead the motion of his hips.

Bruce kissed the scar upon Jay’s brow where the officer in North City Park had split it open over a decade ago. Then he moved southward, his lips pressing to another scar upon his chin before leaving a trail of red marks across his neck, biting and sucking at his flesh. The lustful sounds that action prompted from the man eagerly writhing in his lap sent a thrilling tremor through his body. Bruce’s hands released the chain to slip underneath his tattered black shirt and Jay shuddered and gasped at his cold touch. It was too dark to see much, but as he ran his hands up Jay’s thin body, he could feel taught, lean muscle, the subtle ridges of a few questionable scars, and the pronounced bones of his rib cage. He felt a pang of pity for the circumstances that had left him so marred and emaciated and he leaned in, kissing his chest as Jay stroked his hair. Bruce wrapped his arms around him, holding him tightly, and the storm surging within them was momentarily stalled.

“So,” Jay bit his tongue slyly as he snuggled into the crook between Bruce’s neck and shoulder, “ _That_ happened.”

Bruce gave a bashful laugh, loosening his grip so he could lean back and look at him, “Yeah, I, uh… I guess it did.”

Jay moved in close, lips brushing against his as he asked, “You want to stop?”

Bruce’s hands reached around and groped his ass in response, “No.”

He moaned into his mouth as they kissed, breathless and wild, until Bruce pulled away, his nose wrinkled in discomfort.

“What?”

“Mm,” he hesitated and said, “You taste like an ashtray.”

Jay threw his head back, groaning in exaggerated annoyance before he took another swig of whiskey and shot back, “You’ll learn to like it.”

“Also,” continued Bruce, ignoring him and glancing around, “We’re going to need a change in scenery.”

“Ugh, you chivalrous types are always so timid,” Jay teased, “You can never just fuck in a filthy, public alley.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, slapping his ass lightly as he said, “Come on. Up. We’re going back to the apartment.”

“Oh no,” Jay protested as he stood, “We said _Wayne Manor_ would be the final stop of the night.”

“‘We’ said?”

“ _I_ said.”

“Well I’m calling the taxi this time,” Bruce pulled out his cellphone, selecting the number from the list of previous calls.

“Fine,” Jay sighed, but then a devilish smirk spread across his face, “In the meantime…”

He took Bruce by the waist and guided him to the wall of the theater, pushing his back against it as he kissed down his neck, collarbone, and chest, slowly getting down on his knees before him. Bruce’s eyes widened as he started unbuckling his belt and he reached down to stop him.

“I’m on the phone.”

Jay swatted his hand away, eyes narrowing with malicious intent as he smiled up at him, “I’m not stopping you.”

“That’s not—Ah, yes, hello,” Bruce stammered as the customer service rep picked up on the other line.

He did his best to keep his cool as Jay’s mouth began to work him over, but his body shuddered with pleasure at the feeling. He leaned his head back against the cold brick, his sentences coming out short and curt as he told the representative what he wanted and where they were. Biting his lip, he looked down, his eyes meeting Jay’s as he sucked at him, saliva dripping from his exposed tongue.

“Fuck,” Bruce hissed as he gradually took the entire length down his throat, bobbing over him with a steady, provocative sound.

“What was that, sir?” inquired the representative.

“Nothing,” he answered breathlessly, “How long?”

A moment later, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and Jay gave a soft, sinister laugh, licking his lips and asking, “So?”

“Ten minutes,” he said, his face burning as he grabbed a fistful of Jay’s hair, “Now shut up.”

Bruce took his time getting back at him for that particular stunt and kept his mouth busy for almost the entirety of the time they spent waiting for the taxi. His face was streaked with saliva, tears, and running eyeliner before Bruce finally came inside of him. Jay swallowed thickly and pulled away, gasping for breath and trembling on the ground before him. His own body craved relief and his eyes were heavy with need as he looked up at the man who’d ravaged him.

Bruce buckled his pants and knelt down, pulling a black satin cloth out of his pocket. Jay raised an eyebrow and couldn’t resist taunting him, “Who carries a handkerchief anymore?”

“Honestly, it’s just part of the suit. My dad had a thing for them,” said Bruce, watching him with concern as he asked, “Are you okay?”

Jay nodded, wiping his face as dry as he could, and then smirked a little at him, “I didn’t think you had it in you, Bruce. So _rough_.”

He blushed as he helped him up, “Sorry, I’m not usually—”

But Jay interrupted with a laugh as he leaned against the wall beside him, “Don’t apologize for a job well done. I _like_ it rough.”

“Oh yeah?”

Bruce took a minute to gather his nerves and then turned so he was facing Jay, towering over him. He took his hands in his own, lifting them and placing a gentle kiss upon the bandage on his ring finger before pinning his wrists above his head. Jay gasped as Bruce pressed his thigh up in between his legs and his hips squirmed with need at the pressure.

“Show me how bad you want it,” Bruce whispered in his ear, biting at the cartilage.

He could see the heat rise in Jay’s face as he obeyed, grinding and gyrating against him with growing zeal. His breath came fast and shallow, but he was quiet, biting his lip against the sounds that played behind his teeth. Bruce condensed his grip, holding both of Jay’s wrists in one hand as he reached down and took his chin in the other. He coaxed his mouth open with his thumb, releasing the desperate moans he’d tried to hold in as he pinned his tongue to his lower lip. The sight and sound of him like that was enough to make Bruce hard all over again. But just then, the flash of headlights at the mouth of the alley signaled that the taxi had arrived and Jay made a pitiful little noise as he was released.

“Fuck,” he pressed a hand between his legs, wincing.

Bruce placed a hand over his, making him grope himself as he said softly, “Looks like you’ll have to wait.”

**3**

They’d barely made it into the foyer of Wayne Manor before they were entangled in each other’s arms once again. No longer docile and obedient, Jay had become voracious in his affection. He bit sharply at Bruce’s skin, leaving his own marks, and pulled at his clothing, undressing him haphazardly as they stumbled up the stairs towards the west wing. Twice, they found themselves sprawled on the floor, shedding layers as they explored one another. Two curious events happened then. First, Jay refused to let Bruce pull his shirt off entirely, instead looping the front around the back of his head.

“It’s better only _half_ naked,” he laughed, but Bruce got the distinct feeling that was only half the truth.

Then Bruce’s shirt came off and in the light of the hall, Jay could clearly see the constellation of scars and burgundy brush-strokes of bruises that trailed all across his dark skin. Jay paused then, eyes flickering between the marks and Bruce’s face, questions clearly yearning to be asked behind his lips. But his own scars shown pearly white as he loomed over him and he seemed to decide it was better to leave some mystery between them as he pressed his lips to Bruce’s.

“I won’t ask if you won’t,” he said.

“Good idea.”

Bruce had had the foresight to text Frida on the way back and, if she was there at all, she made no sound or indication that she knew they were home. Growing up, he and Frida had divvied up the manor between the two of them. He had the West Wing and she had the East, as she believed deeply in giving him privacy and autonomy over his own space, while also teaching him to respect hers. So, as he and Jay pushed into his old bedroom, leaving the door ajar, he needn’t worry about any unexpected intrusions.

The night was long and the drugs coursing through them potent and electrifying as they warmed the cold blankets upon the bed. Bruce pulled Jay’s waist to the edge of the mattress as he tugged his pants down to the tops of his boots and left them there to bind his ankles. Then he maneuvered between his legs, letting each rest on his shoulders as he paid him in kind for his service in the alley. Jay groaned with pleasure, hips bucking towards the heat of Bruce’s mouth. He’d intended to finish him that way, but Jay stopped him after a time, yearning for a more intense climax.

“Hang on,” Bruce said as he ducked out from under his legs.

He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a clear bottle of lubricant and a spare towel, which he tossed down on the foot of the bed. Jay was sitting up now, leaning back on his hands as he peered curiously about the room, though when he caught sight of what Bruce had brought, he grinned, “Look at you, all prepared and shit.”

“Sort of,” he said, sitting beside him as he poured some of the lube into his hand, “It’s been a _long_ time since I’ve had anyone here. The last box of condoms I bought expired last year.”

“Well I seem to remember saying something earlier about making _bad_ choices, not safe ones,” Jay sniggered, kissing at his jaw.

“ _You’re_ a bad choice,” Bruce smirked, reaching over and grabbing him between the legs, his hand slick with lube.

Jay hissed, “I do my best. Boots off? Or do you like it when I’m tied up like this?”

Bruce grabbed his chin with his free hand, tilting his head up to watch his expression as he stroked him below, “I think _you_ like it when you’re tied up like this.”

“Mmm, shame you don’t have handcuffs.”

“Actually…”

The moans of pleasure that spilled from the room were punctuated by the rattle of chains as Jay found himself handcuffed to the headboard and folded in half. Bruce was gentle at first, but his lust steadily grew into a hunger ravenous enough to match even his partner's. They carried on like that for hours, switching positions every so often as one tired and the other took the lead or breaking to give their bodies time to recover. Both seemed to prefer being the one in control and it was a constant power struggle between them, though Jay had a particular love for losing that struggle. Bruce discovered quickly that he favored being fought down and punished, though he suspected Jay hungered for harsher treatment than he was willing to give.

During one of their breaks, Jay managed to badger him into letting him smoke a cigarette in the room, provided he stand in the alcove by the window. Bruce joined him there, handing him a glass of water and wrapping his arms around him from behind.

He pressed his lips to the side of his head before saying with amusement, “You’re dripping.”

“You’re welcome,” Jay retorted before downing the entire glass in one go.

Bruce laughed and placed a hand, icy and wet from the water, on the back of his neck and Jay sucked in a quivering breath with a mixture of surprise and relief, “Oooh, that’s nice.”

“You sure you’re alright? You’re not hurt?”

“You’re such a gentleman, it’s disgusting,” Jay teased, “On a scale of one to ten, one being Vanilla Virgin and ten being Hate-Fuck-Me-Until-I-Pass-Out, I think I’d put you at _maybe_ a five. So, I’d say I’m fine.”

Bruce gave him a reproachful look as he repeated, “I’m sorry, did you just say ‘Hate-Fuck-Me-Until-I-Pass-Out’? You really _are_ a masochist.”

“Don’t _judge_ me.”

“Oh, I’m judging,” he laughed.

“You can’t even pretend you’re not into it,” Jay crooned.

“Not like _that_ ,” Bruce said, sitting opposite him on the recliner, “No offense.”

“So, if I asked you to spit on me and call me a whore…?”

“Pennywise,” responded Bruce promptly.

Jay laughed and proclaimed with excitement, “You remembered the safe word!”

“Yes, I did,” Bruce smiled, “And _this_ is actually the roughest sex I’ve ever had, so…”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t like hurting people,” he said with a shrug, “or worrying that I _might_ hurt them. And I don’t think I’d _ever_ ‘hate fuck’ anyone. Why would you have sex with someone you hate?”

Jay smirked, “For the raw, thrilling terror of absolute domination?”

“Really? What if it was…” Bruce threw his head back, thinking for a minute before asking, “What if it was someone like Jaxon?”

Jay bit his lip, going quiet, and Bruce peered at him suspiciously, “Wait, you… you _fucked_ Jaxon?”

“Well… More accurately, Jaxon fucked me,” Jay admitted, turning a shade redder.

“And on a scale of one to ten…?”

“Twenty,” Jay put what was left of his cigarette out on the window sill, “He’s a sick fuck.”

Bruce could feel a subtle change in Jay’s demeanor and voice as he realized too late that bringing Jaxon up was a mistake. “I’m sorry,” he said gently.

Jay shrugged, looking out of the window and shivering a little, “I let him do it, so…”

“That doesn’t make it—”

“Pennywise.”

Bruce stopped, wanting very much to continue that particular conversation, but unwilling to violate Jay’s consent. Silence passed between them until Jay suddenly approached him, climbing into his lap and straddling him on the recliner. Reaching down, he guided Bruce back inside of himself, his body giving way easily as the entire length of him pushed deep inside and he made a small, tender sound that made Bruce want to ravage him once more.

Jay kissed him and suggested, “We already did the whole ‘tragic backstory’ thing. Let’s get back to the ‘fucking-our-brains-out’ thing.”

Bruce smiled at that, but wrapped his arms tightly around him and said softly, “I could never hate you, Jay.”

Jay laughed slowly, stroking his hair as he responded, “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

Bruce scoffed and kissed his chest, moving his hips to push slowly in and out of him, “One more thing.”

“What?”

“What’s your greatest fear?”

Jay smirked, cradling Bruce’s face in his hands as he moaned, “Losing control.”

**4**

Four months earlier, the countryside surrounding Gotham was covered in a thick blanket of snow. Hamill Village, a quaint community located about an hour outside of the city limits, was dolled up in colorful string lights, red bows, and a variety of holiday displays in the Village Square. These included a glowing Menorah, a small, hand-made Pentagram wreath, and a bulbous Christmas Tree, strung with white lights and topped with a shining star. The streets were sleepy that night and the air full of cheer as families gathered to spend Christmas Eve together. Children eagerly eyed shining presents placed beneath the tinsel and bulbs and ornaments hanging from green boughs. Little porcelain baby Jesuses were placed in their mangers and milk and cookies were left out for a certain red-suited burglar with a penchant for leaving things rather than taking them.

A lean, willowy man of middle age sat amongst the crowds of excitable patrons flowing into the local church for midnight mass. His cold, grey eyes surveyed them like a hawk, disapproving of their jovial nonchalance and their children running amok. He wore a hardy, brown winter coat, a yellow plaid scarf that had seen better days, and a knitted cap upon his head. A kind hand set upon his shoulder and he looked up to see the priest smiling down at him.

“Father Jim,” he said in surprise, taking the priests hand in his own and shaking it, “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, Dr. Crane,” Father Jim responded warmly, “It’s been some time. I’m so glad you made it.”

“Thank you, sir, I’m glad to be here,” Crane smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re always welcome. I’ve been praying for you ever since you came home, you know.”

“Thank you,” Crane repeated, giving a short laugh, “I suppose I need it, don’t I?”

Father Jim offered an empathetic look, “I imagine it’s not what you want to hear, but our Lord does work in mysterious ways, my son. I know you’ve been dealt a rough hand these past few years, but if you believe in Him, He will send an angel your way, I promise.”

Dr. Crane watched him as he departed, walking up the pews to greet others and sharing wishes of holiday joy, his gaze filled with forlorn confliction. He didn’t speak again throughout the entirety of the mass, unless it was to join in prayer, and once it was over, he couldn’t partake in the merriment the others made. He adjusted his scarf and headed for the exit, a shadow among bright lights to which he’d never belonged.

“Jonathan!” a voice called to him before he left.

He tensed with apprehension and turned to see a woman about his own age with bouncing blonde hair hurrying up to him, “Yes, Angela?”

“Well, Merry Christmas, for starters!” she exclaimed, embracing him, “It’s been a while since you’ve been to town. How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” he said with a little smile, “Just keeping my head down.”

“Are you selling anymore of that venison?” she asked with a suggestive look, “Oh, with those veggies you brought to the Farmer’s Market over the fall, I wish you could have tried the dish I made. My husband could use a tip or two from you. Your crops always taste better! But don’t tell him I said that.”

“Just fertilizer and TLC, ma’am,” Dr. Crane answered, “But no more venison. Everything I’ve got left I’m saving through the winter.”

“Well alright, I’ll let you go this time,” she winked at him, “but don’t be a stranger! Come round some time, you remember where I live, right? Just off Cherry Street. The boys would _love_ to talk to a _real_ scientist! They’re always watching that man… Oh, what’s his name… Bill Nye! Oh, they love him.”

Dr. Crane nodded amicably, “Sure. I’ll try to do that, Angela. Thank you.”

“Oh, listen to me, just prattling on,” she laughed, “You have yourself a good night, Jon, and a Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Angela.”

He stepped out into the cold and once the door was shut behind him, he let out a sigh of relief. The snow had begun to fall in earnest, billions of flakes swirling all around him, and up above he could hear thunder in the clouds. Hurrying to his truck, he started it up and drove off down the dark, deserted road leading away from the village. Eventually, the street lamps disappeared, and the only illumination through the oncoming storm came from his headlights. On either side of the road, a tall forest stretched its many black fingers towards the sky.

Crane turned on the radio, flicking through the channels of Christmas music until he heard, “—in the GCPD’s ongoing investigation of Carmine Falcone. But Falcone’s lawyer, the infamous Harvey Dent, has argued that the evidence produced by the GCPD was gained unlawfully with the aid of the vigilante known as the Batman—”

He snorted to himself, shaking his head, but he didn’t hear the rest as he noticed a dark figure laying on the side of the road. Pumping his brakes carefully, he pulled to a stop and peered at it curiously before he realized it was, in fact, a person. He popped open the glove compartment, migrating the pistol that was stashed there to the holster on his hip before opening his door.

“Hey!” he called over the wind as he approached the figure, but there was no answer.

Crane knelt down beside the man sprawled on his back in the snow, an empty bottle of liquor in his hand and a backpack beside him. He was dressed in a large black snow coat, thick pajama pants over a pair of jeans, a red Santa hat, and black steel toed boots. Frowning, Crane pushed passed the scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face to check his neck for a pulse and found one, subtle though it was.

He gently slapped at the man’s reddened face, saying, “Hey, you alive, kid? Wake up.”

“Mm,” the man mumbled drunkenly, trying to swat Crane’s hand away, “Gu’way…”

“What?”

“Go away,” he repeated hoarsely, “Can’t you… see I’m trying to… to kill myself? Fuck off…”

“Well, sorry to spoil your Christmas plans,” responded Crane as he pulled the man up into a sitting position, surprised by how light he was, “But I can’t just leave you lying here.”

The man groaned in protest, “I _hate_ good samaritans.”

“Jesus,” Crane wrinkled his nose, “You _reek._ ”

“Fuck you too.”

Crane scowled and, with a great amount of heaving and swearing, managed to corral the drunk into the passenger side of his truck. The man sniffled and shivered uncontrollably and Crane turned the heat up for him as the woman on the radio continued to report on the latest Gotham news. He reached for the dial to turn it off, but the drunk stopped him.

“Wait,” he mumbled, “Turn it up.”

Crane raised an eyebrow, but did so as the woman said, “—furthermore, Dent accuses the GCPD of protecting, rather than condemning, the dangerous criminal who has allegedly violated his client’s civil liberties. The Batman, he says, should be Priority Number One for the GCPD—”

The drunk sniggered and pressed his face to the warm dashboard as he listened, singing softly to himself, “Nana-nana-nana-nana, nana-nana-nana-nana, Batman!”

Crane shook his head, but left the radio on to keep the man occupied as he drove deeper into the forest, turning onto the backroads to get home. Eventually, they came to a great clearing in the trees and in the distance, far from the road, sat a once-elegant farm house beside a barn and a greenhouse. Crane drove up the long winding dirt path that led to the garage and once he’d parked the truck inside, he helped the drunk out and into the house. He was glad the man could manage walking by himself now, despite how badly he staggered, because the stench of him was potent and he didn’t want to get too close.

Crane made him strip off his snow covered outer-garments, backpack, and boots in the hall, eyeing his odd appearance with disapproval, and then led him through the house. It was modestly decorated and old fashioned with a comfortable cabin-in-the-woods feel to it. A few taxidermy buck heads hung on the wall beside framed images of wolves and bears and some Americana decor. Above the stone fireplace was a rather large cross with a metal carving of Jesus Christ crucified upon it.

“The shower is this way,” he said and it wasn’t a request, “It’ll get you warm and sober you up. I’ll get you a change of clothes.”

“Whatever,” the drunk mumbled, doing as he was told.

Crane busied himself in the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee and running a hand over his receding hairline as he looked thoughtfully through the refrigerator for something to offer his guest. There were still leftovers from the thick venison stew he’d made the night before, so he filled a bowl and warmed it in the microwave. He placed a cup of coffee beside the bowl on the table and headed upstairs to retrieve some spare clothing. Nothing he chose would properly fit the smaller man, so he settled on a pair of sweatpants with an elastic waist and a flannel.

Once he’d come back downstairs, he noticed the shower was no longer running and knocked on the door to the bathroom, “Hey, I’ve got—”

The door creaked open as he knocked. Inside, the empty room was full of steam and a smiley face had been drawn with a finger through the fog on the mirror above the sink. Crane frowned and returned to the kitchen, where he was surprised to find his guest sitting at the table and eating with the zeal of a man who’d not been fed in days. He paused only to take a few hardy gulps of coffee before returning to the stew. A towel was wrapped around his waist, covering him from hip to knee, but the rest of his pale body was exposed. More unnerving than the small scars about his torso that told tales of where his skin had been stabbed or ripped or burnt were the two massive ones that ran the lengths of his inner forearms to his wrists. They were deep and jagged, betraying how not only the flesh, but the muscle beneath had been carved open and Crane wondered how he’d managed to survive such wounds.

“I didn’t think you’d be so quick,” he commented, approaching, “You nearly froze to death out there. Aren’t you cold?”

“I’m always cold,” the man said curtly, licking the broth off his lips like an animal.

Crane set the folded articles of clothing down on the table before taking a seat opposite him, “Just the same, you’d better dress.”

The drunk looked up at him, his blue-green eyes sharp and cynical in his newfound sobriety. Within the bright pools of color, his pupils were constricted into tiny black islands, and he offered a sinister smile, “Why? Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“Yes,” Crane answered bluntly, eyes flickering to his wrists.

The man chuckled darkly before holding his arms out before him on the table, palms facing the ceiling. He leaned closer to his host in a threatening sort of way and asked softly, “You want to know how I got them?”

Crane stood his ground, his own gaze hardening as their eyes locked and silence stretched between them. The man’s expression was deeply discomforting as he tilted his head from side to side, watching him like a predator sizing up its next meal. Crane inhaled slowly through his nose, his expression like that of a man playing high-stakes poker. He hadn’t been able to hide his curiosity as well as he should have, but he could sense the power game at play here. He gestured to the clothes with his eyes, keeping his cool as he commanded, “Get dressed.”

The tension was sufficiently punctured as the man rolled his eyes and groaned like a child who’d been denied desert before dinner, “ _Fine._ ”

“You have absolutely no sense of decency or manners, do you?” Crane growled as he stood and did so right in front of him.

“Never had much use for either, to tell you the truth,” his guest shrugged, throwing the towel down on the floor and pulling the pants on first, “So are you, by any chance, some kind of psychopath that’s going to murder me and fuck my corpse? Because I’ve seen a lot of horror movies that start an awful lot like this.”

Crane’s mouth fell open a fraction as the man sat back down, slipping into the flannel and continuing, “I mean, full disclosure, you absolutely have my consent, but if you could let me know ahead of time, that’d be great because—”

“Let’s start with your name,” Crane interrupted, popping the crass joke like a balloon, “Who are you?”

The man paused, clearly not expecting this response and annoyed that he couldn’t get his host to play his game. He bit his tongue for a while before saying, “Call me Jay. And you are…?”

“Jonathan Crane,” Crane responded calmly, smiling at him, “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Jay’s expression was caught between irritation and surprise as he slowly clarified, “ _Doctor_ Jonathan Crane?”

He nodded, his brow furrowing a little, “Yes. Do I know you?”

That unnerving smile returned to his guest’s face and he motioned to the small crucifix hanging above the sink, responding vaguely, “Curious. I didn’t think a man of science would be so dedicated to bullshit.”

“I’m not religious,” responded Crane promptly, “This house belonged to my parents and I’ve left it the way they made it. Were you in my one of my classes at Gotham University?”

But Jay just smirked and continued eating, much to his frustration, so he tried being rude, “How many times have you failed to kill yourself?”

“Oh, man,” Jay snorted with laughter, continuing to astonish him, “Honestly? I’ve lost count. It’s got to be in the hundreds by now.”

Crane’s eyes narrowed in disbelief, “It’s not _that_ difficult.”

“You _say_ that,” Jay waggled his fork, “But it’s not the _dying_ that’s the hard part. It’s the _staying_ dead that I struggle with.”

“That makes no sense, you—”

“Listen, if we’re going to talk about this, I’m going to need a drink,” Jay interrupted him, “Why don’t I go step into the living room so you can drug mine before you murder me? I want to die the way I lived.”

Crane looked mildly exasperated, but gestured for Jay to leave the room anyways. He joined him in the living room after pouring two glasses of brandy and set them down on coasters upon the table, but before he could sit, Jay chirped, “Oh, shit, I forgot my coffee. Would you be a doll and grab that for me?”

Crane gave him a look, but he did so just the same, returning with the coffee cup and handing it off to him. Jay took it from his hand and then replaced it with his own brandy glass, saying, “Go on. Prove to me it’s not poisoned.”

Crane raised an eyebrow, but then he took a large sip and joked dryly, “You know, it would have been smarter _not_ to switch the glasses after deliberately sending me into the kitchen. If you’d have done this with the drugged brandy, I really would have been backed into a corner.”

Jay sniggered, “Sharp eye. It’s almost like you’ve done this before.”

Crane shrugged and sat down on the recliner with a sigh, “So, about your delusions of immortality.”

“Where to begin,” Jay leaned his head back, pondering, “well, once upon a time, there was a very Bad Man and this very Bad Man killed a woman he really shouldn’t have. You see, her wife had made it her life’s work to locate beings of… _extraordinary_ power and she was absolutely beside herself with grief over the murder. No one else would help, so she sought out the aid of an ancient and terrible creature. Some called it a demon, some a witch, but she called it _a Ghul_.”

Crane was quiet as he told this story, his brow creased in concentration as Jay continued, “The woman made a pact with the Ghul, offering it her eternal soul upon her death and from her blood and her hatred, it birthed for her a _Shadow_. This Shadow would possess the man she hated, binding his soul in absolute obedience to her. Until the day she died, his body would act as her loyal slave while his mind went mad with powerlessness from within.”

“You have quite the imagination, kid,” commented Crane with a little smirk.

Jay laughed darkly, unhindered by his patronizing tone, “That’s not even the best part. You see, when a body is possessed by a Shadow, it shares in the Ghul’s everlasting life for as long as they’re bonded. Although it may suffer the agony of death again and again and again, it is doomed forever to be resurrected. At least, until the bond is severed. In this case, when the woman died, her slave would die, and the Shadow would be released.”

“And what then?” prompted Crane, playing along, “Does the Shadow return to its master?”

“That’s what we thought,” Jay said softly, staring up at the ceiling with a strange, haunted look on his face, “When the woman died, the man died too… but the Shadow didn’t leave.”

Crane blinked, his vision suddenly blurring and doubling as Jay hissed, “ _That’s_ what keeps me up at night. Did it _choose_ me? Or was there some tiny, twisted fragment of his sick mind left at the end that _willed_ it into me?”

He sat up straight, looking Crane in the eyes as he wobbled in his chair, his expression wrought with confusion and fear as his body began shutting down. Jay stood and approached him, cradling his face in his hands as he whispered with horror in his wide eyes, “I can still _feel him inside me_. The Dead Mime. He’s watching. _Always_ watching.”

“Wh-What’s… happening… to me…?” Crane stammered weakly, but he as fell into darkness, all that answered him was a cold, mirthless laugh.

**5**

When Crane awakened once more, he was laying on his couch, his wrists and ankles bound with zip ties and his mouth covered by duct tape. He tried to blink away the haze of his vision and groaned as the room around him spun nauseatingly. With a great amount of effort, he pushed himself into a sitting position, struggling against the ties that bound his arms behind his back.

“Woah there,” he looked up as Jay came into his field of vision, setting a hand on his shoulder, “If you get up too fast, you’re going to puke and it’s all going to come out of your nose, so… _don’t._ ”

“Mmm!” Crane tried to protest through the duct tape.

“I know, I know,” Jay said, facing him as he sat on the coffee table, “Why put duct tape on your mouth if no one’s around to hear you scream anyway? Well, I wasn’t sure what other tricks you might have up your sleeve, so I decided to cover all my bases.”

As Crane watched, he picked up a manilla folder from the table and opened it. He could see his old mugshot among the reports and paperwork clipped inside of it. “I’ve been trying to find you for a while, Dr. Crane. You’re an elusive man. I didn’t even recognize you without those extra pounds and a full head of hair.”

Crane’s eyes darted between the file and Jay and he continued to try and speak through the duct tape, though that just amused his captor. “No, no, no,” he laughed, “I’m _not_ here to kill you, I assure you. I’m actually a big fan. I admire your work.”

He flipped through the pages in the folder idly, saying, “I especially enjoyed when you ‘accidentally’ killed three people at Ace Chemicals.”

Crane scowled and started struggling hard enough that Jay had to put the file down and grab hold of his shoulders, “Hey. _Hey!_ Listen. I’d actually _love_ to hear your feedback about this, so if I take off the duct tape, are you going to cooperate? Or do I have to hurt you?”

Crane was panting heavily through his nose, his eyes wide with terror, but slowly, he nodded and Jay carefully peeled the tape from his mouth.

“It _was_ an accident,” were the first words out of his mouth, “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

“Really?” Jay didn’t hide his surprise.

“Yes, really,” he gasped, side-eyeing the file before asking, “How much do you already know?”

“I know that you were illegally experimenting with the chemicals at Ace. That you created compounds that could drastically alter emotions, particularly _fear_ ,” Jay explained, “And that one of your experiments went very wrong, leading to the deaths of three employees. Then you went to jail for half a decade and, boy, did that go badly for you—”

“Okay, okay, I _get_ it,” Crane snapped in humiliation, “What else is there to say? I lost _both_ my jobs, my home, my career, my fucking _sanity_ — _Everything!_ What more do you want?”

“Why did you do it?” asked Jay curiously.

Crane didn’t seem to want to answer this question, but unable to find an alternative, he told the truth, “I was trying to find a cure for my… my sociopathy. I thought that if I could create chemical compounds that could _force_ me to feel intense emotions, perhaps it would fix whatever made me… like this.”

“But,” he sighed heavily, bowing his head in defeat, “I was _wrong_. Nothing helped. And then there was an accident in the lab. I was careless and the fear compound got sucked into the ventilation system when it became gaseous. I… I didn’t mean for it to happen, _any_ of it, I swear.”

“Awww,” crooned Jay, puckering his bottom lip in mock sorrow, “My poor heart _weeps_ for you, baby. Is that why you came back here and started picking off hitchhikers and drifters for kicks?”

Crane froze, unable to respond to this as Jay began to laugh, “Oh, come on now. Don’t be _shy_. We both know that if tonight had gone _your_ way, it’d be _me_ tied up on the couch.”

“You didn’t switch the glasses,” Crane whispered, realizing his mistake.

“Bingo!” Jay grinned, “You drank your own roofie.”

“Are you with the police?”

Jay gave him a look of utter disgust, “ _Seriously?_ Do I _look_ like a pig to you?”

“Then what do you want from me?”

Jay pinched his cheek affectionately, “I want to _hire you_ , you little serial killer, you. _You_ work for _me_ now, understand?”

“And if I refuse?” he growled, jerking away from his touch.

Jay’s grin turned sinister as he grabbed Crane’s jaw sharply in his hand, jerking him closer and snarling with great pleasure, “I’ll chain you up in some dark basement in Gotham, _starve_ you, _beat_ you, _mutilate_ and _humiliate_ you, and then _force_ you to!”

Crane swallowed hard as he looked into Jay’s maniacal eyes until he finally released him and cackled, “And believe me when I say, they’ll _never_ find you. That is, until I’m done tossing all the pieces away. So… do we have a deal?”

Crane nodded stiffly, whispering, “Yes.”

“Good boy,” Jay crooned, hopping to his feet and clapping his hands together cheerfully, “So! I’d like a tour of my new lab. I imagine it’s in the basement, right?”

Once Jay had cut the zip ties binding his ankles, Crane hesitantly led the way downstairs. The heavy wooden door to the basement was rigged with six different locks and at the bottom of the long staircase that followed was yet another door, this one even more formidable, made of thick steel and locked with a digital key code.

“Good to know you take security seriously,” said Jay conversationally as they walked through a room filled with enough supplies and rations to last years, “It’s like a doomsday bunker down here.”

“It _is_ a doomsday bunker,” Crane explained, “I converted it into my lab when I moved back in.”

“After you got out of jail?”

“Yes,” he admitted irritably, “after I got out of jail.”

“So, your parents _died_ while you were in jail? Wow, life was just _pissing_ on you, huh?”

Crane turned suddenly on his heel, glowering down at him with cold, vicious eyes. He didn’t even need to speak for Jay to realize he’d pushed him too far and he raised his hands in surrender, saying, “Okay, okay, _geez._ It was just a _joke._ You’re stiffer than a scarecrow.”

Crane backed off and continued leading him deeper into the bunker. They passed through one more security door before the expanse of the lab opened up before them, divided into three distinct sections. There was the kitchenette on the left side of the room with sinks and a large basin, an emergency shower and eye washing station, and a long table filled with beakers and instruments and strewn with papers detailing the mathematics and outcomes of certain experiments. A hefty shelf lined the back wall and was packed with a variety of tools, necessities, and bottles of all shapes and sizes, some empty and others filled with curious liquids. To the right, two cells were walled off behind thick bullet-proof glass, each equip with a shower head, a toilet, a tiny drain and vent, and a bench. Each also had a set of cuffs hanging from chains on the ceiling where a prisoner could be uncomfortably bound.

In the center of the room was what almost looked like an operating table. It was a thick slab of metal on an adjustable arm and covered in heavy leather straps, currently positioned so that the person bound to it would be in an upward position, but leaning back at an angle. Jay seemed thrilled about this feature in particular and raced over to it with all the excitement of a child before climbing into it.

“Oh, yes,” he crooned with pleasure, fingering the leather, “ _This_ will do nicely. You’ve got an excellent setup here, Scarecrow!”

“I’m glad you approve,” Crane muttered with no small degree of sarcasm, irritated by the nickname.

But Jay paid him no mind as he hopped off the table and rushed over to the cells to gawk at them through the glass as if they were new exhibits at a zoo, “ _Wow._ This is fucked up. Is this where I would have woken up if you’d drugged me?”

“Yes,” answered Crane honestly, moving towards the long table while Jay was distracted.

“Would I have been on the floor, the bench, or chained to the ceiling? Ouch, I’m betting chained to the ceiling because you think I’m annoying, right?”

Crane’s hand wrapped around a pair of scissors as he muttered, “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Wow,” he breathed again in wonder, “You’re really a genuine psychopath. And then what? Do you torture them? Or do you just run tests on them and shit? Scarecrow? Hey, Scarecrow! I’m asking you a—”

He would have gasped if all the air hadn’t been sucked from his lungs as the knife entered his back, his body convulsing in shock. Crane shoved it deeper still, crushing his small body against the glass and then twisting the knife back and forth sadistically as Jay writhed and whimpered in strangled agony. He tried to struggle, but the larger man had him immobilized.

“You have,” Crane hissed in his ear, “ _no_ idea how much pleasure this brings me.”

He reached up and wrapped his fingers tightly around Jay’s thin neck, pulling him back from the glass just enough to allow him to see his own reflection staring back at him as he was slowly strangled. Crane watched him closely the whole time, smiling as he squirmed, pulling desperately at the hand around his neck as blood pooled in his lungs and burst from his mouth. It ran like a fountain down his front, his eyes rolling back into his head as he shuddered, weakened, and finally died, his body going limp in Crane’s arms.

He stood there once it was over, breathing a sigh of deep satisfaction as he gazed at Jay’s dead expression and felt his pulse disappear. Then he pulled out the knife and pushed the body nonchalantly to the ground, giving it a good kick as he sneered, “ _Amateur_.”

He carried the knife over to the kitchenette, washing it and his hands in the sink as he whistled a cheerful tune. There was blood on his button up, so he pulled it off and tossed it into the biohazard bin, shivering a little in his thin undershirt. The knife was placed back on the table before he returned to the body, admiring the purple finger-shaped bruises on the neck, and said to it, “I guess I’ll clean you up later, kid. Enjoy the lab.”

Chuckling darkly to himself, he turned to leave, but as soon as he reached the door, he heard a sound that made a chill run down his spine: The body behind him was sucking in hoarse, wet breaths. It suddenly coughed and sputtered up more blood, moaning weakly and rolling onto its side as Crane slowly turned and watched it with wide, horrified eyes. It curled into a little ball at first, shuddering in pain, before it slowly pushed itself up onto its knees. When it looked at him, its eyes had changed from blue-green to milky white as it staggered to its feet, thick black blood running from its mouth all the way down its pale torso. It opened its lips and tried to speak, but the grotesque gurgle that came out couldn’t be formed into words. It swallowed thickly and tried again.

“Crane…”

Crane subconsciously made the sign of the cross on his body and whispered, “What in God’s name…”

The body ambled towards him, a wide smile splitting across its face as it let out a sickening laugh. Crane stumbled back as it picked up speed, reaching for him and cackling uncontrollably, but right before it got close enough to touch him, it froze as though held back by invisible hands. It twitched and spasmed as it blinked its dead white eyes and suddenly, they were blue-green once again. Jay wobbled with delirium, light headed from blood loss, and fell to his knees at the other man’s feet. Crane had never been more shaken in all his life, never felt horror reach so deep into his soul as to still his beating heart, and he soon joined Jay on the floor as his knees gave way.

“I guess… I should have… seen that coming, huh?” Jay chuckled weakly, looking up at him.

“You’re… laughing…?” Crane blinked in disbelief.

But somehow it was contagious and soon they were both laughing quietly together on the floor of the lab. Jay winced sharply as he held out a bloody hand to Crane, “Partners?”

Crane peered at it as thick gobs of red dripped from his skin and then tentatively took it in his own, “Partners.”


	11. Intermission: CONCEPT ART/COMICS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I've updated--that last chapter was quite a doozy. Plenty left to go--it's all planned out, but I just needed a wee break from writing after bangin out over 45k words in like a month. But I've been doing a lot of art and scattering it throughout the story where applicable. For now, I'm gonna post up what art I've done so far right here with links to my social media pages and whatnot. I'm going to start making comic pages for this story! So keep an eye out.
> 
> I will absolutely be updating the story again soon--Just need to switch it up and recharge ye olde batteries.

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

PunkyBlooze

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Dumpster-Fire-Colored-Joker-Concept-Art-858235815) **

_All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze._

_This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen._

_For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

**Find My Art (18+ ONLY):**

  
**DeviantArt:[@PunkyBlooze](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze)**

  
**Instagram:[@PunkyBlooze](https://www.instagram.com/punkyblooze)**

  
**Twitter:[@PunkyBlooze](https://www.twitter.com/punkyblooze)**

  
**Facebook:[@PunkyBlooze](https://www.facebook.com/punkyblooze)**

  
**Live Streaming on Picarto:[@PunkyBlooze](https://picarto.tv/punkyblooze)**

* * *

***** Most of these images have been cropped and resized to fit cellphone screens.**

**Click each for link to full size or follow the links above for my social media pages. *****

**NSFW/Sexual Images are at the bottom of the list,**

**full size images can be found most easily on Twitter.**

**CW: Violence/Masochism/Burns/Bruises**

* * *

**Batman 2020: Smile Like You Mean It**

**Prologue**

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Cover-866931576)**

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Prologue-866932007) **

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-1-866316125) **

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-2-866846866) **

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-3-867045583) **

[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-4-867538564)

* * *

**Rough Comic Page Practice (Scene from Fear and Love, Jay and Dr. Crane):**

[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Joker-and-Scarecrow-Comic-Page-CW-Self-Harm-864272093)

* * *

**Concept Art of Bruce Wayne:**

  


[   
](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-Bruce-Wayne-and-Joker-850208443)

* * *

**Concept Art of Batman:**

[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-Batman-s-Armor-864967191)

* * *

**Concept Art of Jay/Joker:**

[ ](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-Jay-Concept-Art-862193631)

  
  
  


* * *

**Concept Art of Oswald Cobblepot:**

[ ](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-Oswald-Cobblepot-863732865?ga_submit_new=10%3A1607664915&ga_type=edit&ga_changes=1)

* * *

**Concept Art of Dr. Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow:**

  
[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-Dr-Jonathan-Crane-863715387)

* * *

**NSFW (ADULT 18+), Uncensored full size images can be found on Twitter:**

**Bruce Wayne x Jay/Joker:**

  
  


**Jaxon x Jay/Joker:**

  



	12. Intermission: COMIC - Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omg I'm so proud. I know it's short, but I finished turning the prologue of this story into a comic! I made a few little changes, but that's just how it is when changing mediums. It's the first time I've worked with comics in a long time, but I'm very excited to continue! +Watch/+Follow for future updates!
> 
> I also absolutely will continue writing the story as well! All the future events are planned out and I'm actually super torn between my desire to finish writing it and my desire to do more comic work. Right now I'm doing well with the comics, so I'm gonna follow that rabbit hole as deep as it goes before switching out for writing again.

##  **Smile Like You Mean It**

Written and Illustrated by:

PunkyBlooze

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Dumpster-Fire-Colored-Joker-Concept-Art-858235815) **

_All accompanied concept art created and copywritten by PunkyBlooze._

_This piece is cropped to better fit your cellphone screen._

_For full size, follow the link by clicking on the image._

**Find My Art (18+ ONLY):**  
DeviantArt: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze)  
Instagram: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.instagram.com/punkyblooze)  
Twitter: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.twitter.com/punkyblooze)  
Facebook: [@PunkyBlooze](https://www.facebook.com/punkyblooze)  
Live Streaming on Picarto: [@PunkyBlooze](https://picarto.tv/punkyblooze)

* * *

###  **Prologue**

**Click any of the images to follow a link to the full page on my DeviantArt account.**

**All have been posted to my Twitter account as well.**

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Cover-866931576)**

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Prologue-866932007) **

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-1-866316125) **

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-2-866846866) **

**[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-3-867045583) **

[](https://www.deviantart.com/punkyblooze/art/Batman-2020-SLYMI-Prologue-Pg-4-867538564)


End file.
